in limbo between middle and old age
done
so much in the rearview yet
nothing dead within
life pokes and prods eager to do make create be
in something that doesn’t hold enough motion
is the world holding reins or perhaps
I am disillusioned thinking I can reign
the middle ground holds nothing apathy
a condition not of winter
but of a spring unborn
I want no degree in dementia
lost minds send spirit fluttering
toward a heart discontented
this place this space needs filling
therein lies an answer
if only someone could read the symbols
sent from somewhere
I no longer seek