Critical age

So many years have handled the badge 

of a critical age, like an era of war, 

or an unprecedented piece of writing sprouting without necessity, 

as if there is a time-limit to beauty 

as if there's an expiration date to oxygen

there's a certain end to all ends- that's sure 

but why the gentle reminders?

because so much depends on the critical eras for men 

and more for the women, it seems;

a  love that ticks on a certain number, it seizes to be under other circumstances 

an unfulfilled promise of eternal settlement

and the children, must you let her not forget? 

 her future children will refuse birth after a certain hour

and the loss, the hole she will evidently face

unlucky, tsuk tsuk- shame 

too old now to dig for happiness she's hidden purposely 

Youth falls onto years, it cannot be bottled nor contained 

and such is the belief in the next sunrise

clairvoyants, in our own rights we sleep in an eternal wait, 

foreseeing the sun  without realizing that sleep might erase warmth-

we wake up fearing time's hands

Much depends on our ability to sleep

to dream, out of the handles of critical numbers

I too dream out of circles, cans and rounded dates

there are critical moments in my days, file-dividers separating the hours

into sewing and ripping, 

into touchable and edible- in me  there isn't a deadline for time 

I am fine 

You talk to me of critical ages, meaningful to growth

when will you realize that you lay dependency on  a woman, 

who repetitively fails to decode the numbers?.