Detached Wings

All caught up and nowhere to go

as if this last quarter stage of life

is devoid of the poignancy once

claimed by youthful exuberance

My ability to care is leaving me

as a dried out, quietly deserted 

termite mound, with only hollow,

lonely holes of forgetful neglect

The way out is marked, solutions

back blocked by years of declining

decay, and so I'll follow the insects

disappear into the starry night sky