a poem by Linda Bates Terrell, USA

down hill
of life's run
that crippler
it's favors, none
It robs and steals fun
It targets without regret
Affects the rich or poor to set
Of limbs and joints, visits too soon
Sending its misery, its victims swoon

It's needles, soreness of its aches of pain
Well, it removes from life all to those to gain
It pathetic venom strikes, fingers nimble and bent
Upon those it captures life's goals are soon absent
It's like slow forming stubs-- of all the elderly's hands
Striking old, afflicted, and feeble, while aging so grand
There is no cure, its misery felt by all throughout the land

Linda Bates Terrell
Written © July 19, 2013

What Is Summer
My Collection of Poems 2008 - 2012
Within the Golden Writers Box Of VoicesNet
What Is Summer
Poems collection of July 2013
Within the Golden Writers Box Of VoicesNet

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