In sparkling bursts
Life's pleasant surprises
Appear then fade away.
The solid really real
Turns first to a nerve burst
Of emotional excitement,
Then transforms itself
Into a worshipped memory
On some altar
Often visited in the night
After too much aloneness.
Then this sacred artifact
Gathering the road dust
Of distance and dried tears.
Turns to "was it really?"
And "what does it matter?"
Anyway.

Now all seems undone.

Listless breaths
No longer fill sails
Which once strained towards
Adventurous shores

Now I lie limply
Here,
or there.
It matters not.

Striving to claim and reclaim
What's left
Relying (or is it re-lieing?)
In a decaying brain.

Old heart,
Devoted lover of life!
(or was it only fear?)
Giving nourishment,
Movement,
Numbed
Drugged
Drunkenness,
That nevertheless felt good
Or at least seemed to feel.

In comparison to now.
Lifelessness?
Or

The poise of
Old Age?