I get older and older, and it looms
or seems to. And so I start to wonder,
when will the night descend? In the meantime,
how shall I go on, keep my good comfort
and the remaining pleasures of my days?
My niece in Castlemaine, son in Melbourne,
if asked, might want to house and care for me
(and I could pay them most of my pension).
In both cities, old friends … keep ageing too.
I choose (once more): here. The rivers, mountains …
Written for Poets and Storytellers United, at Friday Writings #200: To the Power of Ten. Any 10-line poem is called a decastitch. This specific version, unrhymed and with also 10 syllables per line, is known as the Ten-by-Ten. It's supposed to be one stanza only, but mine fell naturally into two, so I am calling it a Ten-by-Ten variant.
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