Smoke drifts through
A corner of a mirror,
And you were less than a fifth century
And I beyond my fourth.

Youth is shamed by the
Unyoung,
Those who once had it
And now mourn it,
But never by those who don’t miss it.

Youth was beauty
Youth was hope,
But age can still be so.

I stir awake for you,
A slumbering once-nocturnal beast,
Now, maybe, a midnight owl,
No longer with the claws of dawn,
But not far removed from that.

I shake awake for you,
I am something wanted and on
Cold
Hard
Nights
I am all that is.