A poem by Jason Branch, sophomore Psychology Major
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Old skin, with the strength of papyrus, binds spry musculature
Molded together with fragile tendon
Joints weary from years not lived, each pop of crumbling stone vertebrae
Betrays the absence of movement
A threadbare throat scratching at wise words
Swollen tongue tasting the sweet nectar of temporary relief
Eyes ambushed by fatigued folds, lips bitten and raw
Aching in the jaw, the elbows and knees, the everything in between
All of the spine sobbing its protests when the time comes to move
All of the drained reserves of energy, trickling empty like a battery
Wailing petulantly when the time comes to rest
How sublime it is, living in between life and death
The bitterness of a worn down form at war with the zest of youth
Tingling in the knuckles of knobby fingers and at the dips of smooth, brilliant temples
Migraines carving along the walls of bruised bone
Mind trapped inside the skull begging, “stop, stop!”
Is this what is left to grow into?
A lifetime of the same droning pulse, foreign to the mind
But present as the heartbeat
One unsated by remedies or cures
Just as blood flows through veins, it petrifies the nerves
Blessed realm of Hypnos only another transient repose
Algea, Algea
How acute is this malady
That is well known and still untreatable, that infects many denizens of this earth
Such a thing that could bring down even Achilles from his podium
Without the exploit gifted to him by the River Styx
One that grips warriors long gone from the fields of battle
Ambrosia is reserved for the gods, but can Asclepius not become indulgent with his alms?
Permit us the constitution to escape this burden
Algea, Algea
Is the cracking of nailbeds and thinning of hair a punishment for what we did as fools?
Ignorant to the sins of the world, not yet resistant
To the whispers of Kakia
What malady is this, which affects even the most noble of mortals
Those who have scarcely sinned and whose generosity is carved in the obelisks of history
Whose shades have long since reached Elysium, alongside their many accomplishments,
Exploits, victories, documented also their failures
Whether it be of their addled minds and bodies, or tactile shortcomings
Was it the wrath of Tyche, her sudden lapse in goodwill?
Or Nemesis’ retribution: karma to those whose hubris doomed them to Tartarus?
Algea, Algea
Can our aching souls free ourselves from Asphodel– can we not live in the warmth
Of Hestia’s fires, even in the shadows of our transgressions
Even among the cold tombs within the underworld
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