Crown of Age

With old patterns faltering
In the wake of time
Serving him less and less
Desperation creeps
Then slowly sets in

Searching for something
Real to cling to
In a world of illusion
And cheap parlor tricks
Of which he created
And has always dwelled

Better to be
An imaginary somebody
Than a real nobody

His platform
His soapbox
His mission
His salvation

The sum
Of all his
Fear