Sage

Let this be dementia.  Let it be thin blood ribboning  through frail and outworn veins.  Let it be imbalance, an  overflow set seeping through  life's lusterless remains,  where the drag of age outweighs the days  and loss undoes the gains.  Or let it be madness.  Have it marked and measured,  mathematized, and meticulously gauged,  for memory's maze cannot  assuage the rigorous regret  that sets the final stage,  and leaves us with a shawl, a sham,  and the long awaited wisdom of old age.