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Description

It starts with
a closed circuit

electrons shunting
hither and thither
until your battery
juice sizzles down
to a beautiful nothing.

A last sputter, maybe
yet when it dies,
the observer does not.

The observer chokes
because he knows
he cannot escape
breathing, or his last.

To be young is
to shake your fist
at the world and
get a war in response.

Awareness, listen- hear
it swear into silence,
the totality of "you"

abruptly alone, not
pantomiming existence-

because you know
you know -
but you are a product
of thought, and thoughts

are to reality as
skittles to a rainbow;

a trick of the light
that melts on your tongue.

But

while you burn
you are at your brightest

and no war
no wound
no win
no wisdom
is the same
as when you are
high on
life, and your
reason for living.

To be old and angry
is to shake your fist
at the world and
become a punch line.

You'll be snagging headlines
(or should I say they'll snag you):

"Former genius goes mad"
"Esteemed medalist loses it"
"Mental illness or just desperate?"

Pity casts the first stone
when envy has ceased fire.

Hot blood in young veins: they
couldn't lay a finger on you.

Now that your knees
are buckling under, they're
suffocating scrutinizing skewering
you: too close for comfort.

And
you
are
just

tired.

(You promised yourself
you would never tire,
never desist, but damn it - your
ways are too few for your will.)

"Now" is

captioned beneath
a photograph of a "you"
who inspires laughter-
a bag of bones or more convex-
"how the mighty have fallen."

No.

"What happened?"
is what they all ask
as if charming crow-feet smiles
aren't as desirable anymore.

The creases between your brows
are the last embers
of your fight, never
go quiet into that good night.