_“Tick,_

_Tick,_

_Tick,_

__

_The tocks of the clocks passing by,_

_Childlike whispers, echoes and memories flood my mind._

_Each soft wrinkle of innocent age, _

_Is a story of my time._

_I sit religiously with my needle and thread._

_I sit reminiscent of joys and laughters in my head._

_Every moment is so fleeting and pure,_

_But soon I’ll be knocking on heavens door._

_So I sit reminiscent of the imagination that thrived and the purity that held fast, _

_The sounds of innocence past, _

_Because old age wasn’t meant to last.”_