Gnarled Finger

Hanging on to the crumbling edge of hope...
One slender, gnarled finger.
Holding here for days upon years, struggling to cope...
Stubborn enough to linger.

We are for always pilgrims
Attrition sapping our strength...
So say some of our sages.
Closing my eyes into nothing
Flowing through my rib cage
and my sunken chest.
Looking back on the job I’ve done.
Laying me down at the end...
to rest.
And with one last accounting chore,
To a song by my favorite singer,
Choose to be a pilgrim no more
and relax my gnarled finger.