Growing Pains

by Chris Butler

I'm already dying
once growth stunts,
as atrophic muscles
stiffen, tenderize
and ache.

Reserve a place
atop the dusted mantle
for my drained
and polished skull,
a hollow memento
to lament, then pawn
to pay the rent,
since nothing is
better left unsaid,
when I'm dead.

The fine wine in my veins
sours to vinegar with age.

But, I'm too young to complain.