Sorrow's Poem Poem by RIC BASTASA

now the letters start to blur
the hands with its fingers turn the page of humiliation.

the mind sharp as a scalpel takes out the pus of existence
puts it on a glass plate for viewing upon a high powered microscope

and in it one sees the realism of the minutest detail
about who we are not what we shall not become.

in simple terms, the dilemma of old age enters the temple
walks steadily upon a bridge and finds again the tears

a little fountain of the eyes
where birds dare not.