When to Run

I'm so uneven. I cannot see, an end to grieving, or another me My joy is stolen, drifting, floating. I cannot see, the good in anything Getting old It's far from me just how things grow. Is this hardened soil not my home? Hands calloused, legs weary, my brow is low and thoughts are heavy How can this be so? It thins my bones, let's in the cold How can I go? Getting old How to know when to run can be, for some something so scary "I will stay." it is to say so gently, "there is something here worth saving!"