Metaphorical

growing old,
been there, done that,
no more lines to learn, 
no rehearsal,
time now, though, 
for the great reversal,
start too early
they shout, dementia,
start too late
you’re in the ground,
no more sunbeams
turned to fire from hell,
no more silver stilettos
masquerade as moonbeams
no more walking through
the silence of fog
exploring those special places
we hide from ourselves,
a man dressed in black,
pale face prominent
but indistinct
has dogged me
throughout my journey,
poisoning the minds
of those i meet,
sleeping with my lovers,
then vanishing into the night,
his laughter echoing
as i climb into their beds of ice,
but how much more pallid
will that face become
when i’ve grown younger
and turned the tables
with tricks he can’t imagine,
retribution is not 
a waste of time
when we’ve grown old,
then young again, 
all the while knowing 
we’ll grow old once more

growing young