Few words are said on the descent into decrepitude

The young, charming, and happy, bursting with newness embark on the arduous enterprise of living.

Time stretched, then without warning speeded up.

Declivity.

Another summer gone.

Bringing terrible midnights of doubt and dread imprinted brows.

Silence and holes in their shoes.

A corrosion of the soul.

Until, heavy and bitter, and dreaming of rejuvenescence, they grope their way to a grave that lies forever in wintry light.

Joe Lucking writes for theatre, radio, and screen. You can find him on twitter @joelucking66