Racing the Clock

Sexagenarian Period

The 60’s begin with reminders;
scribblings on napkins,
some typed into glowing screens.

 Some make it to a list:

Desires, like seashells collected for their shine,
not for their salt as you create
clatter in the bucket,
quiet echoing into the hollow,
but beautiful captive sound.

Septuagenarian period

The weight shifts.
The clock ticks louder,
not in seconds,
but in heartbeats.

You start searching for faces,
those you turned away from,
those you wounded with words
sharp as winter wind.

You want to stitch apologies
into the torn fabric of years,
thread by trembling thread.
You want to leave no ghosts
wondering the corridors of your name.

Octogenarian period

The race becomes a sprint against shadows.
Cancer crouches like a thief in the alley,
dementia waits like fog at the edge of the field.
You bargain with your own marrow:
eat clean, breathe deep,
avoid the jagged edges of stress
that slice decades into days.

You send good vibrations
like dandelion seeds into the wind,
hoping kindness will root somewhere,
anywhere,
and bloom before the frost.

Then…

You begin to pay real attention
to the ant hauling its crumb,

And you see the little creature
is no less sacred
than the man hauling his regrets.

Every pulse,
every wingbeat,
is a syllable in the same unfinished poem.
Purpose is not a mountain to climb,
but soil to share.

Hopefully…

When the clock finally leans in,
whispering its last secret,
you realize it was never about outrunning time.
It was about learning
how to walk beside it,
barefoot,
on a road where even the shadows
are warm.

And before the ticking stops,

you look down to see
your own shadow has vanished
and the sun is gone.

In its place,
a single star burns inside your chest,
a quiet lantern lighting a path
that was never measured in hours,
only in light.