Aging is a monster,

a flesh-ripping, blood-sucking abomination

that covertly wraps its soiled, filthy claws around you,

suffocating you to death slowly.

Though one may not wish to die by poison,

or to be at the tip of a blade,

dying from old age feels like 

being punctured a million times.

What use is there

when your brittle body deteriorates into dust for eternity,

at the cusp of life and death?

What use is there

with wrinkles engraved into your weathered, willowy canvas of skin,

bones bulging out like wings,

and your hair consumed by unrelenting swarms of salt and pepper?

What use is there 

when your blood flows like water,

and your once iridescent aura dims?

Soon, 

everything will dissipate right before your eyes,

and you wonder: how much more must you suffer?

Soon, 

you will yearn for the lives of people unburdened by life

as they encompass you,

chuckling and giggling with vitality and life.

Soon, 

the Earth will eradicate your existence,

and you pray for your erasure to occur sooner.