Posterior Vitreous Detachment
Black fly of death on a summer's day,
Ink smudge of sight, go away.
It came from nowhere and promised old age,
A shadow of death after futile rage.
The fly-wheel of life is slowing down,
Given to others as a life force kinetic,
Who pass me by and no longer look round:
Blind and invisible: it's genetic.
As one sun sets, another rises,
Bursting with Nature's new enterprises.
But they too think once like me,
When busting with green energy:
Never thought the day would come,
When darkness of death hides the midday sun.
You're at the bottom!