Pre-Mortem.

Left to my own thoughts

They drift to things i've noticed about the present,

And how inevitably different they are from the past.

I look at a picture of my dad,

Perched atop one of my high school creations.

He seems untouchable by time-

Even now looking young from first glance,

A closer inspection shows me just how wrong I am.

He looks so tired now, eyes sometimes glazed over,

Whenever stubble grows it's always grey.

The most haunting part though is the sunken eyes.

Circles so dark you can almost see the skull underneath,

And it sends me a chilling reminder.

No man or woman can escape the end game.

I don't like thinking about it, 

And nor do I want to recognise it. But it's there.

I want to have the dad from the picture-

Jovial, young looking, not tired. 

No skull showing itself through the skin. 

But I can't.

So I am condemned to watching the one family member slowly age,

Health problems grow more numerous,

Jovial talks at night progress into more serious,

'What ifs' talks. 

Talks that even dad himself have begun to discuss with me,

Talks I can never bring myself to contribute to.

I only nod my head appropriately,

And blink back the tears.

Tears, and the words I hold so dearly in my heart.