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The Graying Grateful

To age is to live, to have lived.

To see shock white hair remembered with darker sheen,

And so be reminded of what it is to live grateful.

If eternity is set upon hearts of man, then we do not grasp it.

We cannot.

For a day is as a thousand years to the Almighty.

Who are we then, to live as anything but ravenous for the time that escapes us,

Slipping through wanton jaws,

Starved for the assurance that time cannot offer?

Falling to the desert below, our seconds and moments and hours and days

Memories as grains lost to unfathomable abundance and numerated shards of glass

Our days numbered as the sands, each just as unknowable as the other.

What is known to us is this: the Graying

The inevitable, the graceful and terrible, the inhumane yet most human

An art of tragedy and decay into a death that began at birth.

In youth it is never seen, yet lies beneath the surface

It comes clear, and in the middle we fear regret and that we might relent

Acknowledging the inevitable, savoring the the indelible.

Until at longing's last, unknowable days fall to the sands below

And we amid them sink below in greater company:

Those Grayed and Grateful.

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