No Country for Old Men

No Country for Old Men

The young

In one another's arms, birds in the trees,

—Those dying generations—at their song

Sailing to Byzantium

By William Butler Yeasts

I set the rain on fire, lacerated the sun

with my straight razor

so I could part company with time.

I'm saving my abysses,

to scamper away from the cold

so as not to be disgusted with death.

This country is no place for the elderly,

the ridiculous collections of antiquated scores,

birds bebopping jazz on the autumnal tree

of sensory music that ignores everything,

a ragged coat on a folded cane.

Teenagers, standing on God's sacred fire,

turn to me and say…

Stick to being the educator

of your wrinkled breath.