Tangles of whitened wrist-hairs,
microscopic as I lie on the bed
with head at rest,
left ear pressed against the pillow,
right arm stretched in relief
beside the lens’ of my eyes.
~
Nearsighted, so glasses off.
~
Hazel irises to leathery skin,
or is it crinkly tan—
a writer’s fancy.
~
I’m tired,
embarrassed by revelations of aging.
~
Wiser and wiser,
yet nearer the grave—
how tragic this comedy!
~
Will technology arrive in time
to preserve knowledge—
yet replace flesh,
humanity—
my soul even?
~
Never the soul!
~
Ultimately, a silly question
with no answer worth tailing,
for any tail leads but
to another head.
~
There is no future,
yet, a past to glean from—
and the present between—
this tick of wisened action,
and that tock of participation
in the construct and movement
of the proverbial elephant
that the blind, Hindoo men examined—
the ones among the many
without whom the many would not be one.
~
Shakespeare penned it as:
“All the world’s a stage,”
where his “Seven Ages of Man”
are untwined by curtain’s close.
~
My hairs whitened now,
regenerating still,
each suffering stagefright
in its present role.
~
by S.A. Bort / 12 July 2013
Above photo: by S.A. Bort
Below photo: artist unknown
For more on the story of “The Blind Men and the Elephant” as well as the idea of “one and many,” please see my previous post: The One and the Many: The Blind Men and the Elephant, plus two.
Blind Men and Elephant
