Where Did The Magic Go?

In overgrown gardens lost to eternity, we wait. We wait to grow old with the mountains and then wish we were young again.

Walking by cemeteries, the evening chill is just the wind. If it's something more, it's not like we'll ever know. We never know a lot of things.

Where is the merriment, the wonder, the drive? We're waiting to grow old, but we've lost something along the way and it's a long walk back.

The tree is now taller than the house. We climb to the top, yet only see the bottom between the swaying branches, and we sway along with it.

We sit around the campfire and regale each other with stories and tales that fail to mesmerize anymore, because they're only stories and are turning grey as the flames die out with the voices.

Where are the embers to grasp onto as they float into the night? Where is the spark we used to know so well? We'll never be young again, it just won't be the same... until we find out... where did the magic go?