" A writer that can’t
Poet what ain’t"
Is not how I once was perceived.
For when a free-thinking young soul
With achievement my goal
The sky was for reaching, I believed.
The letter in my pocket sticking in yet another boot-blow:
Here I am in the People’s Theatre painting my rainbow
When the sudden impact of life’s irony leaves me word-less
And I climb down from the ladder and cross the Yellow Brick Road
Leaving my duck-egg-blue sky, bird-less.
And, just like in a dream that never took flight
Dreams of Red-Brick that faded from sight
Out of reach now, as the Moon
As Neverland and, Brigadoon;
A Dorothy, that never got to Oz
A Scarecrow sans a brain parodying all I once was
.. I walk down Stephenson Road not seeing the ground;
Clouds in my head blocking out sight and sound.