The wind blows past, we veer off-trail,
Through brush, wood, and trickling creek, the trampled-out trail is no longer visible,
Abandoned moss, decaying rope, dilapidated cement and empty lots,
Sprinkle in a glass-framed brick and mortar,
Bygone times and dimming lights,
Absence of laughter, or small footprints in the mud,
The Wasted Youth have departed, and they now reside in a small watering hole by Lake George,
Where they sparkle bright under a full moon near an open fire,
Trying to reach the portal and finally depart,
I wish to be among the bright ones, but instead, all I find are fallen apples.
They’re all sitting there, first shining, then slowly rot; what once was promised ripeness becomes no different than dirt.
You were on that ship and could have tossed me a rope;
Did you not hear me calling out?
And years later, you returned to pick me up,
Only after accumulating tales,
Taking me to a destination I cannot and do not want to follow…
I’ve started building my own ship now.