Getting Old Poem by Thomas Case

On the edge of Summer, with everything green,
I dream less as I get older.
I can still smell the smoldering
fires of fierce youth, when the landscape
of my heart was wild;
a wilderness that wouldn't be tamed.
But, I'm afraid old age has slowed me down and
quenched my thirst for adventure.
Even my poems have lost their teeth.
Gone are my scabbed up knees and
swords made out of sticks.
No beautiful maidens to rescue;
just constipation to overcome,
as I listen to the clock tick.