Dog Ears and Bold Font
This old poet's words are dying...
Slipping into damp, craggy times.
Still reciting-still reciting in the bend of mind.
Exploding seeds from graying volcanic lungs.
.
Staring down the last of the embers.
No dry kindling left. It's beginning to rain.
Young poet smirking at my dog-eared years.
Yes-I am jealous of youth,
its pliable cotton candy mind.
I've definitely lost the edge
but like to think I've one good punch left
One clever thought
A brilliant line.
Yes, I'm burned out and envious
but my tattoos and battle scars
are still etched in bold font.
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