Of Myself
Now I am not alone,
Just less,
More abstract in mind,
Less you or I than people,
Fewer springs than seasons,
Knowing less and being infinitely wiser.
The quiet desperation of my youth
Watches the children
From the balcony, laughing,
And wonders if tomorrow arrives.
Now I wait for the prophecy of my memories
To dissolve the brutal physicality of today.