the tiny house upon the hill

with browned  and broken bits

roof caves in but no one cares

about the man who sits

he sits within- his head all wrong

and tilted to the side

his mirror shows another man

one who's lost his pride

a magic man with golden hands

and heart like noonday sun

a man with a child still inside

just waiting for his run

with broken boards that squeak and moan

and places without their finish

he listens for each aging sound

as all his dreams diminish

he cannot see the life still there

that twinkles in his eyes

or the flourish of his wondrous soul

that reaches midnight skies

so now he packs up all the dreams

he left along the road

beside the shuttered playhouse

where once he wasn't  "old"

boarded up now he can hardly see

though he peeks from his half-closed door

and glimpses love with tear-stained cheeks

and imagines something more