There were some of Night’s children:
Blame, Doom, Deception, and Strife,
Who reveled in human despair
And the mortal miseries of life,
But their brief brother Age,
Who mortals so often fear
The four siblings didn’t like
How he chose some people to appear
Younger than their years,
Not riddled with brittleness and arthritis
But still youthful, pretty and lithe
And the four didn’t like this.
“Why are some human so lucky?” they asked.
“Why do some deserve longevity,
While others gnarl and rot and wither
(in which we find great levity)?
Everything must decay,
Everything must die,
So why should some have it easier
Than other pitiful mortals, why?”
Age grinned, and shook his head.
“You four think you control people,
That it’s you who bring sadness and hate,
But humans, no matter what you do,
Are responsible for their own fates.
So if they take care of themselves,
It is not my choice if they seem
To retain their youth as they grow older.
Our power is but an illusion, a dream.”
So if you’re so blessed as to have Agerasia,
Or whether you’re blessed with sagely gray,
There’s no one to blame,
There’s no deception,
No need for strife ,
No reason to feel doomed,
Because we each ripen in our own given way.