Fourteen

Somewhere in my youth, 

the sharpness and crystal-clear pixelation 

of my life became dull; 

blunted like a razor cast down hard against the rocks. 

The music became less hopeful, the spring seasons less odorous, 

and it all happened seemingly in an instant. 

Gone. 

Gone away fast 

like the pureness of a white Pima cotton 

under the spillage of a cheap and recreant Merlot.