As I age

 
 
Well I know how they feel.
Those fish.
In enveloping
Cold water.

Like a straightjacket
That forms you
From freeform
Swaying slither

To pixelated proxy
Person who may
Or may not
Actually be.

Constant squirm
To move elsewhere,
But still
The slime clings

And moves with you.
You are what you become
And it grows as you go.
And you seem to have
So little choice as you grow old
And conform to the flow.
 
 

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