Simile

Simile

“Getting
Old,”
She
Said,
Sitting
Right
There,
“Is
Like
Staying 
Too
Long
At
The
Fair.
Cotton
Candy 
Loses
Its
Puff
Of
Sugared
Air
When
You’ve
Had
Enough.
The
Twirling
Rides,
The
Jostling
Crowd,
Become
Too
Loud,
And
By 
The
End
Of
Day,
One
Is
Glad
To
Get
Away.
Or
So
I say
Today.
But
I may
Go
Again,
And
Take
A
Spin
Aboard
The
Wheel
That
Lifts
Above
The
Restless
Throng
To
Pause
At
The
Crest
Until
The
Illusion
Of 
Flight
Will
Shatter,
And
The
Long
Fall
Won’t
Matter.”