Age

A cloud of booze filled body odour
hangs over the bobbing heads and knotted backs
of a crowd shuffling their feet to a forgotten era
desperately revived in the throats of ancient youth.

The floor is sticky with
racous laughter and shouted greetings
battling desperately with the throbbing heartbeats

Calls to turn the music down
from the old who want to be young.
Hands grasping forgotten friends
drunken slurs of semi-recognition

Knees trapped in a crouch
hands glued into a claw.
The signs of age are crude and unyeilding
swallowing the fear.
This is all you'll become.