I'm going to write a villanelle someday, but not today.
_
Why do you think people look at the stars?
Write? Play? Dream?
Act? Love?
Why do middle-aged men quit their jobs and buy motorcycles?
There are those of us
Who are caught in the middle.
Too old for Narnia and Never-Never-Land -
Too young for heaven
Torn between Lothlorien and the Western Shore -
The flaming sword still in sight -
But unreclaimable.
Backwards never,
Forwards only by the will of the tyrannous trickling sand.
What about we in the middle?
Must we ever be content to remain
Here in this wonderful terrible always
Never enough world?
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