Am I fifty-four?

Fifty-three ’til six-thirty!

Blessed– with a year more.

This trick is dirty,

Piling years behind my back,

Stacking volumes at my door,

Littering the floor,

Palm’s lifeline Loitering

At a small crack.

I see a sliver,

Heaven’s glimmer,

The far shore in life’s river.

I’m half the way there.

But I don’t now mind

The death march of time.

I long for that rest,

Of joy, sighs,

Stillness.

No anxious palpitation,

No complication,

No search for solution,

Just deep sleep,

Rebirth

As soul rests in meditation.