After the laughter and before the padding of years draws a thousand more lines on the map of my face,
in a place of my choosing I will sit and review all of it.

This critique,
the only way to seek out, to winkle the weakness out is about due.

There are no new lamps for old and when the paraffin runs low and the lights start to dim,
I shall know that this
is my time to go.

But no matter how many times midnight chimes it has not yet chimed for me.

On the face of the clock which is life
I
am only at or just after the hour of three.