(Why 67? All will be revealed here. Pop along and read the prompt, but actually I've chickened out. For "being 67" read "reaching the 60s". And make some allowances: I struggle to remember back that far.)
I had expected fireworks,
signs in the sky,
deep rumblings from the earth,
showers of blazing meteors,
Gods vying with each other,
vortex after vortex:
something that significant
to mark the end of sex.
It was an end-of-world scenario,
the usual syndrome:
prophesied to strike at 40,
then a decade later,
then again at sixty...
but still the dragon went on breathing fire,
would not lie quietly down.
Yet signs in the sky
did manage to appear on cue -
nowt to do with my libido, though.
The day would come, I reasoned, when the world
would roll on sadly gladly madly without me.
The idea was not new,
had been around, been kicked about,
tried on for size in idle play,
but given no attention - until then.
Then it forced itself upon me,
its features veiled in shame
to keep its nature hid.
I did not mind the sun and moon,
the big sweep of creation:
I could not visualize
not being part
of my continuing world.
The moon petals the sea. Rose petals the sea. Stone sea. Stone petals. Rose petals of stone. Stone rising before me. Sea moves. How moves...
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