Your eyes, they don't bother with a protest any longer. They burn, like the final match on a windy day.
Your mind gently gives way.
The colours on that old crystal display are strange streaks of VGA.
You ponder, when did this happen.
When did the Moon and the Skies move on
Out of your grasp of nonchalant control.
Your head feels light, with years of oversight,
And regret, and loss, and shame.
There is no liberty.
There was once sloth,
The tingle in your legs on a midsummer's afternoon
As you stretched out and gave the world a mighty finger.
No care, nor concern, oblivious to danger
From the world,so brightly grim,
Full of wizened figures with broken dreams and golf clubs full of gleam.
You're a child, out of your league and into the wild.
Stop. Wake up. Run.
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