Near the edge

Tick tock goes the clock, mocking my smugness.
I will leave behind immortal songs, I tell myself.
Writing away into my nineties,
gnarled fingers scribbling away. Scribbling away.

A nonagenarian lingering near the edge,
reining in her swan song.
Not letting it go. Not letting it go.
More, some more.
Flowers fragrant with my last breath will woo me,
tantalize me, trying to lure me towards death,
but I will hold tenaciously to that last breath, defying death.

Hush, the adrenaline rush!
I suddenly glimpse in myself the contours of wings
and gloat in their fragile strength.
I watch bewitched, as a beetle creeps up the bark,
and a five year old shins up another tree,
with the dexterity of a squirrel, feisty and free.

Time seems to have gone berserk.
I perk up, and am once again a five year old,
bemused at the confusion of the ticking clock .

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