Dynamic, energy, fate

For J, at the brink of forty, mad with this universe

On the brink of forty
four years starting by the smile of a two year old
dancing around, carrying the end of summer in his pocket
next to a set of rust keys that open no doors

this is childhood today, very similar; like those years
I spent dreaming with pink-tinted glasses on
calling the whole world girly, away from me
from my very finger tips

on the brink of forty and still a child inside
the roll of cigarettes is different;
a tint of sickness, wrapping a body
age in the bones, out of the hair

falls a history, piled with energy
there's a love of life, joie de vivre
it is called- on the brink of forty
you accumulate bearing of opening up
to a place that sealed itself shut
but gave you a two year old at your feet
on the brink of forty, a spasm of dynamic energy
and to a young woman: fate meaning something lighter
than feathers