Taking Stock

Three years to go and if I fill them all with breath eight decades will click in, complete. Already I may pinch my skin and see the ridges stay when I release. It is a curious thing that I observe, not at all my self, this body dancing with old twigs, smooth rocks, and closet skeletons. I don't hold much with praying anymore, would not reclaim decaying youth when I was much too dull to see that every now is all there is, and all there needs to be. Is that not risible? That life may not afford another hope at all? Shall I one moment after death be loathe to die? ~