Vision-impaired

Soar to the sky,
your throat is dry,
but why, oh, why,
we stop in May.
But, hey, the eyes
the fries, small flies, and keys,
and kids, and skids, and ways
to change my mind, my grind
what is to find,
when the world is still the same,
day after day,
even if you just say a hey,
a hay, a needle in the stack,
a pick, a muck, a little duck,
I'm stuck
in some irrelevant dream
or so it seems, my dreams
used to be big, and no I dig
inside my memories,
my stories of some older time,
12 for a dime, and then
I can't believe that
the same guy who did
all those miracles, popsicles and muscle
theories, that awesome guy
used to be me.

And now the yesterday
is looking eerily the same
like the tomorrow one.
Living on loan
we borrow our society's dreams,
instead of living
our own life.

A kid, a wife,
a job, a knob, a door
to Narnia, and two kebabs.

Is this all that I need?
I miss the speed,
the wind, whispering to me
about the times when gods
where walking among us.