Watching Myself Grow Old

It lies beneath the interred spirit of a man, when death is close at hand. I sense it manifest within that restive, intermittent spark that had seemed to be no more, now deterring my eternal rest. But I have a selling job to do. No longer may I tender forth my charms and hope it is enough; a stroll upon the evening air builds not at all upon enlightenment. No, I am the customer and most susceptible to blandishments much greater than the restive moments I may find in play and fortune that I win. All that is expendable when I can revel in the healing truth, there along the well-worn path of thought. There is light to challenge myself again, and no one dares protest. It's all I have, of course. What feeds me is the plenitude of fullness in the empty places answering my call. Senses are irrelevant. I need watch no more. I seek instead the sea cliffs where echoes of the lost may catch the wind, seed the earth, and dissipate. There is my reward, and earth is the richer for it. In gratitude, I hear them still! Their cries are flight released, but age and death are meaningless. The cycle is complete, ~