catch a window

my distant tendrils already
burying into seniority,
with twenty-six percent of the
body and brain
slowly breaking down

what-the-fuck as I look in the mirror.
no gentle business,
and ever-so-irreversible.

true, it's vaguely becoming -
I've got the style now
but no looks or stamina are left

this sad sod here,
waiting for you to
catch up
with me


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