Whilst waiting in Specsavers, the lady opposite was reading an article about a Persian dancer of ancient times, named Sheherazade, who had been sentenced to death by the Shah, but managed to get an extension each day by telling him a story. Half smiling to myself, as I had just reached the downward spiral of eighty years, that maybe that was the reason why I either write a poem or a story each day, in order to ensure my own extension?

I couldn't resist writing this poem, whilst waiting for the optician.

Through the windows of my eyes,
I dread to see, with lids half closed,
that hooded man drawing nigh,
his silent tread of death exposed.

I speak up in complete defiance,
"I'm not ready to follow you.
You shall not have my compliance,
my life is not yet through."

He scowled with such an angry look,
"You've been given another extension?
This bribing of management I will not brook!
Now you've really got my attention."

"Your bionics can't last forever,
and I'll have my moment of glory.
Your excuse is not very clever,
that you want to finish a story."

"I've scooped up many, much better than you,
and St Peter, you've conned him too much.
End the story, and with him be true.
Then I'll smile, as you feel my touch."