A poem
These wrinkled hands once held tight dreams
that unfurled like morning glories
reaching for the sun.
Now they tremble to grasp
what the future has become.
This faded mind once crackled
with boundless imagination,
sparking ideas that lit up the darkness.
Now it sputters and short-circuits
at technology’s relentless acceleration.
But inside this slow-beating heart
lives a soul that has weathered life’s storms.
Inside this weathered spirit lies wisdom
no machine can compute.
So while I stumble over your digital landscapes,
forgive an old man his glacial pace.
Guide me kindly as gadgets confound.
Let my stories be the gift I leave
to help you stand ground.
And when your own youth fades
like dew at dawn, you will understand
growing old is not binary, it’s analogue.
So I’ll slowly, steadily walk with you into tomorrow,
our shared humanity leading the way.
