My Father’s Son

It’s nothing novel anymore,
it’s passed from new to boring.
I wonder when I’ll get it back,
that silent spark of longing.

The triumph of the spirit … sags.
The pomp and fanfares … mumble.
The time that once sped by … just stumbles.
Hilarity that once delighted, now appears a gag.

I know this passing day will pass,
this cloud of gloom will dissipate,
and so I wait,
until that time arrives.