A Writer looks at 40 and a few years.

It was bound to happen eventually, frankly I almost missed
the reference until I thought that Buffett would sing about
the changes in latitudes and I would remember the sea.
What did it mean to me? What did it mean to me?
It's like I have cast my lot once again like a line
thrown out over the waves to drop down into the
deeps where all the secrets I had hope to hide
float among the remains of the mysteries that I
want to keep. In my sleep. In my sleep.
Mother mother Ocean, I had heard you call
in the dulcet rhymes of the ancient mariner's
yarn about fate and the fool hardiness of it all.
The words of the whale song ring through the
lines that I would want to write down with my
shaking pen in hand. Will have to give into this
demand, will have to live with this demand.
Father father sky, I still can hear you out in the
great wide open, in the eagle's cry. I should keep
dreaming that I can fly, should give it one more try.
Watched the authors who told your stories switch from
pages to the LCD screens, forgetting the ink, broke a few
pencils, leaving their mark upon my psyche with a
electronic digits, nothing in between. Most of them
green, most of them green.
Yes, I am a writer, a wordsmith scoundrel, my stories
well in hand, hoping for a voice to be heard out
across this land, The years have made me what I never
thought to become, when the language would fail me,
the plans I made grow stale, unrelentingly unrealized
all that I had hope to gain, but still I see doubt in the
mirror of my plots as if I can see into my own sad eyes.
Nothing left but to despise, I am, in fact, a master of lies.