With Age

My dog had died, so I wrote a poem about life

Age is a chain, a leash,
that binds us to the skin we live within.
A black sky, not blue,
a reminder of ends.

Age is a dog, that withers and dies
A chain did choke a life from its eyes.
My dog just died, not three days ago, and
it makes me think about getting old.

So I begin thinking about the body and mind.
How we begin to grow and then wither and die.
We are like a flower, bloom and then wilt.
Only to regrow in times iron tick.

So should I look forward to a life full of bliss?
One that contains so many hardships?
Remain in a room gathering age?

No! I wont stay in a room holding dust
My life is worth using, no use to sit tucked
in a corner, useless, afraid
of what may come, an end of my days.

So with age comes glory
comes chapters and endings
a book with no cover, not yet bound, or constrained.
I have found the key that will break from the chain.
Just look at your life like you did as a babe.