soft grumbles

Come September
when leaves start to fall,
die, wither, and be buried
by the winter snow
I shall be five and O.

I still have yet to earn
an obelisk to mark my grave;
a cusp of three gold stars
to catch rays of the morning sun
or the gentle breeze that echoes
explosion of twenty one guns

No crown rests on my head
just streaks of silver
on my thin mane;
traces of fat on my drooping skin
bulging eyes from sleepless nights.

Neither my words nor my brushes
have produced any lightning.
My pen is becoming stale
but the sun only rests
at night and sure to rise
in the morning,

Come September
when I shall be five and O
leaves may fall to die and wither
and be buried by winter snow
but my swan is not singing yet.

For fall is only at the northern hemisphere
not here in the tropics where I shall be
when I turn to be five and O