As I think about aging out.
Some chthonic thing, a youthful surge
rises on its own like a boulder nearing
the top of a hill; it falters and rolls back.
I can hardly remember the girl beneath
the spiral staircase where so many home town
mothers began to lose their way in this world.
I long for the passions long past,
the rise of her breast with each breath
and the turmoil of our need.
But now I know why death's a gift.
I make the pain worse each day like a hungry
hyena re-chewing its last kill because its too weak
for the hunt and the prey is swift.
And in my pools of beer I reflect;
I say to myself that I can change;
I get another beer.
So I fight the electro-magnetic boogeyman
where the enemy is pre-defined for me.
It is easy, and sometimes even fun — where death's
defeat is nothing more than a right click away
and only costs a few shining coins of virtual gold.