I came to the world in a sensory rush.
The wash of light,
the crash of sound.
The drug of experience whirling around.
The fear of the pounding, painful bright.
The high of a newborn infant life.

My formative years were a world of content.
No want for time,
no hunt for joy.
The earth was a playground when I was boy.
The simple desires: to swim and to climb.
The high of a curious child’s life.

Then age started working to alter my mind.
The bend of thought.
The wind of change.
The romance discovered, the notion so strange.
The foreign emotion her company brought.
The high of a now adolescent life.

But she disappeared and fractured my soul.
It fell away.
A wall is left.
The impasse within, unfulfilled and bereft.
The drinking, philandering, hopeless dismay.
The high of a sorrowful adult life.

I find myself fading from years poorly spent.
I can’t look back.
I don’t have hope.
The memories linger, so vast in their scope.
The rush of my end is a thrilling attack.
The high of a tired and dying life.