An elderly woman reflects on the closing stages of her life, striving for a sense of purpose before she dies in an attempt to regain the happiness of her youth, and after death she comments on how interchangeable individual lives our in the fast moving world we live in. Any comments would be much appreciated, hope you enjoy :)


1. Hindsight

Time is ephemeral. Time is irrelevant. Time is not accessible, but it is always prevalent.
Faces interchangeable, typing out the names of 'those'. Numbers registered in prose. Eyes close, eyes close.
Lives of those enclosed in wombs, corpses left to rot in tombs. A waiting list of queuing ghouls all striving for their purpose.
Life is who we choose to be. Life is written out for me. All the young have apathy, while all the old are cursing.
Hindsight is a wondrous thing, the tentacles that always sting, reaching out to clasp your brain. Permeating it- again.
Memories blotch from inky pens when writing out the daily errands. Shopping lists that never end. The habits of our stories.
Day to day seems so obtuse. Life becomes to us, no use. And sitting in our chairs, slouched gait, for our life's purpose we await.
The twenty year old that lies in me, through deep set wrinkles hard to see, and spitting at their sympathy, she strives. She strives.
Determination gives it's kick, and stumbling from our beds we trip and race to take our final sip from life's now empty cup.
Parched, we gasp for want of quench, our chapped, grey lips- open we wrench, and crave for just one ounce of strength we had when we were younger.
Time is running out for me, the dregs of life drip bitterly and searching for it desperately, I'm on the verge of slumber.
A clock strikes twelve, a cuckoo caws, I sag, filled with my own remorse of final plans I should have made, and now of course, it's much too late.
The watch tick ticks beside my bed, my visitor, the one I dread, kneels down and feels my pulsing thread- the veins which will pronounce me dead.
He's waiting for their go-ahead.
Life's tapestry, pulled at the seams, as I succumb to slumber's dreams is quilting me with reams and reams of cloth that I embroidered.
And all at once I feel assured; my legacy is not so flawed, so giving in I claim reward and sink into a silence.
Those that stayed are swept away by a waving nurse who's shift ends late. She strips the sheets that permeate with the scent of stale afflictions.
Beds are made and bodies cleared, rinsing down the stained exteriors, turning back the time in years, though now it's much too late.
Fresh sheets on: new resident. From her old home she's now been sent to rectify her life's lament- after all we all yearn meaning.
Life goes on as time assents, and in my bed lies resident, aware of nothing other than the waiting list for purpose...
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