The Sound of Ink

Everyone ages – If you’re breathing, you’ve already collected some minutes rushing toward years. Time passes – I limp walk into another birthday, hair turning whiter, and attitude growing louder. There’s a limit – on how far I’ll go, and how much I’ll take, when wisdom has more rings than the twig I planted at eighteen. I’m there – The place where patience is thin, time is short, and people pleasing is a dance I no longer wish to attend.  ©Susie Clevenger 2025 NaPoWriMo Day 9  

She’s an old girl, feather ruffled with echoes of every show that haunts her stage. The march to modern tagged her eyesore, but she held the historical ace close to her breast, and winked her glass paned eyes when the wrecking ball played its losing hand. When the 1920’s danced its way to the bottom, she was wearing crystal sparkles and singing tomorrow will rise from the speculation of hell. Youth likes to rattle its dimes to put age in its place, but the Aztec is a San Antonio Rose in the swamp sprawl of condos proving money can’t buy what seasoned grace can deliver. ©Susie Clevenger 2020 The Sunday Muse #108