A pedestal of matchsticks

Walking on eggs with wooden shoes
Hoping none will break, knowing better
With each breaking i lose a piece of me

Is everything made to lose ?
the way you cannot hold
a bubble of soap as it bursts in your face

Time moves on, life follows like a shadow
Hair losing its colour, thinning with age
As the faces around me slowly vanish

I sat on a pedestal, made of matchsticks
Each movement a predicament
Even frozen stasis an abysmal challenge

alone on this wooden throne guarded by silent pillars
I look at my empire of coppery rust
Desolate , void of the vibrant signs of life
Only echoes of lost sounds remain...
slowly fading into nothingness