On the Flip Side of the Mirror

A surge of sense.s
Silences seconds—
Close your eyes
And the air thickens
With a cocktail of scents
That trigger every last nerve ending
Like an old symphony
Your body almost remembers.

Life, at the end of a racetrack
Where first place feels like a punishment—
Awareness loses
To convenience
That stretches itself one morning
And finds every damn piece of furniture
Moved.

Protests?
Pointless.
Fingers now bend in rebellious directions.
Thyroid keeps demanding pills
Three times a day,
Stomach files complaints
Unless the menu is monk-approved.
Cuss words—
Once sharp like knives—
Now sound like cheap echoes.

Rules?
They fight back
With scribbled receipts,
Faded travel plans,
And three damn cars
Nobody makes or fixes anymore.

Hey—
Remind the room
These creaky knees still pack enough torque
To knock some sense in.

Let them
Play smart.
I’ll return their sweet suggestions
With whichever finger
Gets the best lift.

Forward is forward—
No matter the pace.

Make
Them
Wait.

Let them learn
What this relentless chase
For programmed praise
Does to bone, breath, and being.

Give them a test at the end—three hours, no cheat sheet.
Laugh hard—
Behind the book
You now can’t read
Without your bifocals.

Once, I might have whispered—
“Hold fire.
Wait it out.”
But now?
The world spills
Over with nonsense.
The hourglass is bare.

No witnesses needed.
Only a season of reckoning

That ends
When it ends.