Fragility's the curse of age:
weak stick-like arms, quick flashing rage,
slow shuffling feet, lethargic brain.
Beloved pleasures become strain:
to read each word, to turn each page.
You leave your room to find the cage
confining you is safety's gauge.
Frail spinal bones rasp one refrain,
The hands won't grasp, nor fists engage.
You're battling the seventh stage
with parchment skin atop gnarled vein
while jars and tight lids mock your pain
until there's nothing to assuage