alley #34

I cannot find
the poetry I had dreamt of
as a boy.

The wisdom of ages
is showered upon
me,
as
I
tremble and am told to sit still,
to watch and to speak,
to say little.

Trying to understand the
whispers of men who told me
they know more than I can.
The men whisper to me
words that are heavy
with smiles of the sorrowful.
I beg for more and doors I will never
enter are thrown open for me.

The memories of boyhood cluster around
seedy dreams of waking up. Sleep winds
past alleyways imagined as a child.
I weave through their grey insides and stumble
upon words from before.

The old are jealous of the young.

Children envy the past
that belongs to the dying.

Do you remember
when we walked
into the strange landscape
of cluttered words,
silent musings,
magic dust?