Feeling the earth moving,
movements of the clock ticking.
Each second a century,
Losing her presence daily.

Seeing voices in the air,
Touching smells everywhere.
Slow and steady she must go,
High and fly like the black crow.

Losing against gravity,
No more Ms. high and mighty.
Jumping up against the walls,
There she falls and falls and falls.

"Is this dying?", she whispers.
Her words floating in the skies.
"What is living?", she wondered.
Her once persistent voice faltered.