Dried logs at the preserve,
Sleeping trunks
forgotten by the lushness around,
Burnt logs by sunrays of indifference.

Logs near Kitching Creek,
pine needles dangling, soothing breezes soften the air around the logs.

Erected pine trees
stand adamant and firm,
like foremen by the clock of the seasons.

Pine Cones at the crown of the trees;
pine cones by their dried roots on the ashen sand.

A thriving log tries to set roots once again; the nature around it
engulfed its hopes.

The surplus of my physical life needs much repair.
It happens that my knees ache—a couple of wooden strips and nails would straighten my stride.
My buttocks need much lifting—a couple of inflatable pillows to prop them up would do.
My nose is as submissive as it has been for decades—perhaps a hook or a couple of toothpicks can help regain its pride
The hues of my countenance had become so ashen and wan—a couple of strokes of cheap exterior paint would bring me back in sight.
My skin sags and hangs so loosely from my bones—a forgotten raincoat on the rack of monotony.
And with this—Time keeps ticking!

The wind grasps the crown of green trees
As they dance synchronized, swaying free,
As Playful cunning, fox-like trickery
Enclosed, a suitcase holds dreams indeed

Autumn leaves all fading tawny brown
Allegorical floats, there roar the crowds
While decorated wagons elusively depart
A man vainly grasps the faded handle bar

The clock still fixed at 4 o'clock
Fresh hands admire and mercilessly mock
The sound of consciousness echoes a reply
A shielded soothing, wisdom now by his side

Has the carnival exited the town?
The streets are vast, brooms dwindle on the ground
Youth has departed, a lonesome effect
Darkness grows, a time to reflect

Bedazzled Adonis, petals imminently fall
The promising path has bent for all
It's the last pristine day of forty springs
Inevitable fate that age brings.

(Written in 2014)