Afterparty

I'm not so old, yet old enough to know,

The laws of diminishing return,
The way each body-blow resounds.
Formerly benign, now they earn
A world of newly-minted scars.
In sequence and in secret do they grow,
Till bursting forth, they manifest
As just how it is, or getting on.
The grate and grind and slow untimely
Slide towards the near beyond,
Every day a jot closer now.
Not to complain, merely a jest
That cannot be fathomed, 
Nor, like the sum of our ills
Compounding,
Can it be put to rest.