Mucus Memory

I cough up words with no meaning and no end in sight, 
I lift from my sticky brain the meanings of everything and life, 
I wonder at the brassy tips of each toe, 
When will I get to where I’m going? 
And is where I’m going something I know? 
I am plagued by a swarm of buzzing ideas,
Destined to never see the light, 
Oh to be young again to have the code and the use that many covet so, Oh to have the wisdom of the old,
With that stoic achievement between each wrinkle 
And a sheen in each eye, 
Cataracts only the scourge of the young.