Some rage against the dying of the light.
Some rage at the neon glow through their window,
catching them in the eye after midnight,
slowing time’s movement to a viscous flow.

Some rage about the sassy, sloppy youth.
Others rage that the old can’t understand.
Some rage when strangers sit down in their booth.
Others rage when things don’t go as planned.

Some rage about how time moves too quickly.
Others rage that we’re all stuck in the past.
Some rage until they’re tired and sickly.
Some rage they missed out by saving best for last.

You wonder why the lack of deathbed rage?
Let’s call it the wisdom of the end-stage.