Called Home

A shot of the future, a glimpse of the past. time needs to slow down and stop moving so fast. The years flash by as wrinkles set in, the old creaky bones and white hair begins. Memory after memory dash through your head, as you lay very still in your old wooden bed. Your skin is pale and as cold as ice, your words are kind and always wise. A tear slips down your old wrinkled cheek, you're finally called home, as you drift off to sleep.