Old Guard Moment

They laugh in clusters, faces bright,

fresh hands typing on sleek glass screens.

A name slips out—"old guard"—sharp as a bite,

cutting through the hum of electric machines.

I catch my face in the window's gleam,

etched in gray that no filter can hide.

A stranger framed in the chandelier’s beam,

where youth’s shadow swells, I collide.

Their voices bubble like a sparkling spring,

mine’s a quiet pond where ripples cease.

Old guard, yes—what does that word bring?

A roomful of light where I’m a crease.

The chandelier sways, a distant sound,

and I hold the silence that settles deep.

In the youngest crowd, I’m the lost ground,

carrying years they never meant to keep.