Age finds me older in a round about way,
Whispers of voices with little to say.
I care. I care not for words spread about,
Gossip is nothing worth figuring out.
Oh, the pressure in which the blood will rise,
Friend becomes enemy over a stretching of lies.
With each telling there is no longer truth,
And that is why I do not miss my youth.
My age finds me more of I must see to believe,
I question more and am harder to deceive.
If you wish to spread your tales do not come my way,
You will leave before you start with nothing at all to say.
© Cynthia Clark