Old as the hills and more bare
my head, with its stony thoughts
cobweb-laced to the measure and thickness
of centenary lianas in womby jungles.
Old as stone my bones, and as stiff;
Brittle as chalk and whiter that wheat
chaffed by flails dangling from great hands.
Stringy ropes of tired muscle dangle
tying themselves into knots of knots
the pain a fog so thick you can feel it
(or could, had you nerves left to feel)
Elli, old age, vanquisher of gods
devourer of mountains, queen of private hells,
waits for you with bated breath
