I am 7.
I decide to become a Jedi
to fight against the evil dark-side,
but the night still scares me
and I pull sweaty covers over my eyes
as my flashlight begins to flicker;
I put my faith in the force
and the fear slowly passes
like clouds over the moon,
stars appearing in-and-out of sight.
I am 14.
Girls do not talk to me,
so I try to move things with my mind:
pencils, paper weights, my teacher's
right and left breasts.
I seem to fail at everything.
I stare directly into the sun
in hopes that I might soak in the fire,
maybe obtain the power of a superman;
my doctor soon prescribes me glasses.
I am 28.
I have been taught everything
that I have ever wanted to know,
and begin to construct my own philosophy.
Some exclaim, “Magic!”
They seem to believe that I have powers,
and I become more than human
as I drink in the high praise of my followers;
I will find something new for them,
something special, something more
than simple thoughts for change.
I am 56.
I have perfected the power of knowledge
and many hang on every word I touch,
yet I have not found my supernatural gift,
my destiny to have one ability
that no one else will ever have—I want
to look up and fly over the trees,
and I need to be the only one.
Staring at a cloud covered moon,
I wait for my chance to taste
a quick reflection of the son.