Tick tock, the plums ran up the clock

Pained, tired, hungry

Resting peacefully

Shut from the outside world

Caged in a small bubble

Ice cold,

Shivering

Tick...

Tock,

Tick...

Tock

Warm air filling up

With cosiness

Smelling of freshly baked plums

And surrounded by

Almond coloured walls

Cocooned in nothing

But a deep, red, blanket

Soothing whispers

Quietly hush

Into a deep, dark, sleep

Skin fragile,

Wrinkly,

Shrivelled up

Like a broken hearted worm

Covering for shelter

Once ripe

But now old

Youthfulness gone

Yet beauty still remains

Crisp as autumn leaves

Soft as golden sponge

Fine lines

Protruding veins

Intoxicated with drops of

Sweet vanilla

Seek to mark years of

Strength and wisdom

A fighter in its shell

A warrior in its sleep

Tick...

Tock,

Tick..

Tock.