Joe’s always flittered around like a moth,
No apparent direction but drawn in and focused, an alert sloth.
He hasn’t changed since he was a wee angel,
“Awwww it’s a phase he’s going through, just a wee spell…”
But the wee spells made some long term potions,
That masked the realism of having no notion.
Until the elixir would wear off and then the stray,
bouncing off lights leading those around him into emotional affray.
Pressure on, he would jump ship and never looked back,
The horseless gap year that turned into a hack.
“He’ll grow out of this, this latest spell over this last year !”
The house, the debt, the pension plans and kids…he feared.
But with this ultimate spell he holds the wand,
And he writes his book, so the magic…his hand.
These choices, big life musts that you and me would make,
They are spells that he casts that disappear like ripples on a lake.
But he won’t conform, with the pure of Mr Potter and the luck of Houdini,
As he searches in vain for that happy inner feeling.
So these spells makes his life…well a life all the same,
If he drinks too much, or lusts too much, or swears too much, or drugs too much, or tattoos too much, or smokes too much, or loves too much, or loves a boy too much and then a girl too much…it’s just him living his small short life.
…That will be over in a blink, this very short spell on this lonely pressure-pot planet.