like the crispy snap of a wheat cracker
innocence is lost with a whisper
by seventeen I could not speak
the glossolalia of my mildly insane youth
the faith in my own hysteria
had slipped away in no time

and we can almost lose that sensation
that once had been so entrenched
adult fears may pay the rent
yet never leave the mind
clear enough to relent
and glean a little from the natural flowing
inspiration of the naked fields,
the Edens and Elysiums
of an end to grownup listlessness

when young energy comes alive for the first time
it shakes and wretches, and wreaks havoc
like Stymphalian birds
and the tumbling down of time,
the constant labours offered to that man
the gray shades, the old bones
I would hand it all away and burn
for just a spec of timeless inspiration