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.

We poets were a sensitive lot
in a world that shat on us
although we fought.