I'm hanging from a glass chandelier 
in the multipurpose room of the
Flagstone Senior Living Complex,
surrounded by my contemporaries
seated in wheelchairs, lounge chairs,
electric golf carts and Sunday other devices. 
 
The chandelier is likewise hanging from a
glass cord, fragile as ice crystals singing.
The circle of watchers divine how weak
and fragile are the beacons following me
through the air as I watch those aghast below,
fearful of the weakness they sense in my eyes.
 
How much longer will the glass cord last,
the ice crystals adrift in air? The spectators
sense the weakness of the ice crystals singing,
of the cord of glass yearning to break free
and fling its flimsy cargo into the blind air,
castng it adrift in the unknown, forever.