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It is my time.

KoiJumbled, distracted and devoid of feeling

She’s soft like the wood I feel everyday, crushed,

between the palm of the rocking chair my mind locks me in

It taunts me now, promising peace, a transition from young to old

But it is to early. It is not my time.

I rock back and forth,

Whose there? Be you stranger or friend?

Ahh, alas I feel these bones settling into my chair,

My grave.

But it is not my time. It is not my place.

I run my hand down the hard ridge on the arm of my chair,

My chair? I don’t think so,

I shuffle my feet and pull on the blanket of my fettered cold routines, patched and incomplete

It is my time. I stand.

I can feel it, running down my face, the burdens of youth,

My hand clenches, missing that feel of the fine lacquered wood between my fingertips

Why am I scared,

Why can’t I just sit down?

My burdens fall,

heavy from my chin.

I don’t look back. It is my time.

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