On the edge of autumn,
I see the sky and trees ablaze with color.
I can still smell
the smoldering fires of fierce youth,
when the landscape of my heart was wild,
a wilderness that wouldn’t be tamed.
But I’m afraid
old age has quenched my thirst for adventure.
Even my poems have lost their teeth.
Gone are my scabbed-up knees
and swords made of sticks.
No beautiful maidens to rescue;
just constipation to overcome
as I listen to the ticking
of the clock,
beating louder as evening draws near.
Powerfully penned, Thomas. Excellent write mixed with nostalgia and Father Time finally catching up my friend. I can relate. Nicely done as always. Appreciate you.
Damian
Thanks, my friend.
It’s interesting how we suddenly realize one day that the wild edges have softened and reality tastes different, sounds different, than it used to. Age waits on no one. Eventually we all arrive at that door. But the memories are just as exuberant as the moments were when lived. I feel this one