am i a middle-aged hour glass
slowing sifting blood cells like sand
from my head to my toes?
the tips of my fingers and nose grow cold —
tell me, yoga
if i do a head stand, can i reverse time
without losing consciousness as the waves
of blood crash into my head and old memories
drift and filter through my brain?
can meditation save
what remains of the mortality slowly
vanishing from my veins?
Thank you for reading this poem from
Reflections 2015, A Poetry Collection of Written Works by Tiny Fawns
This is a poetry compilation project featuring previously written content that I will share during periods of time when I am not available to provide daily updates. All poems from this collection were scheduled a week in advance. All comments, questions, and ping backs will receive a response once I return.