Poetry

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Tin stars and antique fishing flies
Occupy small wooden coffins that barely
Restrain the flood of memories reserved for old men and coffee

Timeworn editorials extend vague heroics
That accumulate like bones on a dusty horizon

With life's sun setting a desperate soul battles valiantly to fill inestimable moments with purpose

Plans, hopes and dreams clutter enlightenments shore like so much frippery
"Was my life worth something?"
"Did I make a difference?"
A lithe spirit struggles against uselessness
in an old glove,

Aching to dance

Behind the Boy Scout greens and the inadequate portieres of dignity
Seduction prowls like a hungry jackal among the ruins of broken covenants
Waiting for unsuspecting generations
Reality unravels the fantasy of tortured secrets
Like a seasoned thespian performing with guiltless ease On the dark stage of depravity
The aroma of seared flesh drifts heavenward as another guiless conscience is scarred

Unconquered demons, temptations and harmless flirtations
Splinter a tree left to grow twisting in the sun
Struggling to survive

Fruitless

And I inherit the wind, forgotten promises and broken truths wrapped in a dusty wardrobe of indignity. Clinging to an ideal scripted from an antiquated black & white sitcom that has left me bittersweet. I stand with Age waiting for Wisdom to arrive, and He is late.

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