Senile Senescence

By Suvreenda Sood

In the last days of senescence,

Flowers, wilted, embers, fragrance 

Of psithurism and rustle of petrichor, 

Sun sets, dew drops, seven blissful shades of awe.

Midst fields of October pumpkins, 

Hot oven baked cinnamon muffins, 

Overturned, the passion of pastel prose, 

The care of carmine, in the river of golden woes.

Feral fright, freight of sorrows, 

Sails reefed, solemn promises flow in furrows 

By the hearth's splutter, an armchair of rugged vows 

A reminiscence, a nostalgia, a memory, its murmur mellows.

Yet why is it fear not feared? 

Reliance, not beauty but imminent pain. 

What is senile but senescence 

Power, honour, legacy or decay.

By Suvreenda Sood