Ticking clocks and beating hearts

Old age brings with it
such a thirst for life,
these hollow shadows
of former things,
where comforts ghost moves
inside dead bone loneliness.

Forms of sacred wonder
move inside a finite brain,
drenched in delusion but,
calling out to a ‘something’?

There are weeds;
there are slagheaps of the past,
gone to an old English wind.
And then there is me,
with a ticking clock,
and a beating heart.

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