Growing Old

Growing old nears vision of extreme pleasure,
Like a godly delivery of waste and space,
Of living and stinking the hard kids,
Of lifting no finger on bullies of schools,
And liking the odd as well as even numbers.

Growing is found to be in my diary,
Often I dreamt of it, and I am it.
It escapes poverty, luckily it devours me
And surrounds me in places of worship,
As I am like a temple myself.

I am in my nineties, and too well at dying,
For the privileges are numerous,
And the church is not mistaken,
With the vicar at its head,
And I am stronger than He.

poem by Naveed Akram
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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