I used to race the sun back home,
Barefoot prince of the kingdom I’d roam,
Through tall grass seas where the cattail swayed,
While ecstatic laughter danced through the willow’s shade.

The swing set creaked in the lavender dusk,
I etched my name in its time-worn husk,
Sure that the wood could keep my years—
The scrapes, the chalk, the fleeting fears.

But now boxes tower where my kingdoms once sprawled,
As bills sweep in with a cold paper squall.
I’m folding shirts while tucking away wild schemes,
Pressing lost wonders into smaller, quieter dreams.

Mom still hums while the kettle sighs,
She asks if I’ll visit—“I’ll try,” my gentle lie.
Dad says, “This is it, you’re off for good,”
I linger a moment, just longer than I should.

I thought growing up was an honor to claim,
That the peak held the prize at the end of the game.
Yet here on the summit, my bright vision fades in the haze,
And I ache for the wonder of those childhood days.

Funny how I sprinted toward this fate,
Counting the days like a racehorse at the gate.
Now I trace them back through footprints slow,
Hoping the road still knows where to go.

If I could, I’d slip through that side‑yard gate,
Skim past the long years that made me late,
Step into a place where the days stand still,
And trade all I’ve learned for that innocent thrill.

But tomorrow calls across uncharted seas,
With lifetime vows and the turn of new keys—
I cross the threshold, drawn back by old memories,
Still aching to swing, once more, beneath those ancient, gnarled trees.