Scripted...

Code in mahogany
Scripted ..in whim
Racey pulse turns quiet- sour

A birthday, a mood,
A reminiscence:
50 is coming to engulf us all.

What whimsy these decades predict
Textbook moods now follow derision,
Of all our conquests- unmet.

A desk- a hallway- windowed background
Glued particles dressed as faux champions
Frugality has driven decor.

Ode to those whose nod were in favor
Of pursuits that turned lips upwards
Nearer heaven and sunshine.

Stripped of 'best' when intention is mute
Clacking processional will not be derailed
To punch and punch on in honor of expectation.

Who am I today, 31 days from my 46th?
Moving upwards? Near enough to points of worth?
I had that 'face to face' I craved- now what?

Insignificant REM states deprive light
Of circular transgressions that throb alone
Impotence haunting slumber- pfffft.

Rest to wake to wake to tire- to lay again-
Alone, onto a nest of  pure function
Where once warm hands could lie.