I’d envisioned getting older
as a toughening process.
I believed that when I was matured,
when my grey hairs had arrived,
my heart would be mighty.
That each beat and each thud
would be audible to those
who claimed a bit of my love.
Instead I find I'm brittle and worn through,
that those things which did not kill me
most assuredly did NOT make me stronger.
I suspect I 'm doing it wrong.
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