40

Time is a predator Tick-tock is how it’s spent Until the thread is visibly shorter Than the mind ever imagined A carcass awaits every dream Where vultures assemble to feed on the cynicism Of what was left behind And only the memory of youth is Left fossilizing As bone.  

Forties

When 40s roll You dig deep into your wishing well To look at what glows inside The mutiny of the body equates To the depleting chemicals and what one can think is How to rake in the dough While the mind is summer is a fruit salad The autumnal mind is a perfectly layered pudding…