FORMLESS

FORMLESS

This aged suit is threadbare and tattered,

 been scattered in more ways and places

than I can  recall.

The man in this mirror looks strange to me.

There are hairs growing on the outside of my nose

that I can only see with my readers.

My soul is still a child,

innocent,

 and doesn't understand

this slow decay into formlessness.

I am tired and retired,

given plenty of time to ponder

what this life was all about, 

what this life was meant to be, 

what this life may yet reveal..