His wiry hair, upright in statue, the only thing that has not stunted with his age.
His worn face, exhausted and spent - yet his eyes still sparkle as he moves towards the theatre door.
It takes some time to find his seat, squinting at the little letters on the side rows.
He moves gingerly down the isle, smiling cautiously at the other patrons.
He watches in awe, remembering his younger days of performing.
The act of ageing gracefully hard enough, but losing the ability to be on stage devastating.
During intermission, someone offers him a chair and holds the door.
'I don't deserve it' he shrugs off.
I watch him with fondness and immense sadness,
the decrepitness of age haunting.
I feel terrified, no doubt it happens too quickly to even realise before the glory of life...
the options for potential is effortless blown away.
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