On the edge of autumn,
I see the sky and trees all
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 that
old age has quenched my
thirst for adventure.
Even my poems have lost their teeth.
Gone are my scabbed up knees and
swords made out of sticks.
No beautiful maidens to rescue;
Just constipation to overcome;
as I listen to the
ticking of the clock.

Wrists
Childish wrists
Soft and white
Aside from a few lines

Wrists
Scarred and rough
Raised along different points of the wrist
Hundreds of lines on this one
Old lines

Wrists
Bruises from a tight grip
Soft little lines
Not noticeable to anyone
but the wrist

Wrists
Teary wrists
Cried into often
Soft and pale

Wrists
Everywhere
On everyone
Yet no one notices
The little signs

quiet down now, 'cloud whisperer',
don't you know these fits fade fast
don't you know these delusions of power simply will not last?
the sky does as she pleases
the sun shines as he may
all the pleading,
all the crying,
won't matter anyway.

sorry to say, 'cloud whisperer',
you know your magic isn't real
you know that all that's come and gone will do so as it feels.
the here and now will slip away,
and tomorrow's coming quick
all the wishing,
all the whining,
won't change all life's fun twists.

so quit your rain dance,
put down your spells,
and stop your silly chants.
take a breath and feel the drops,
learn to love this cruel romance.