Less are made each year,

but I'm still making

young mistakes.

 

The fires of passion burn me

just as they ignite my life

and I am left as charred remains,

no phoenix rising.

 

Pretty new hair molded

into what has been fashionable

but is never guaranteed to remain so

a symptom to an illness known as modernity.

 

The words are slow and heavy now,

caked on mud and dried out dirt,

reminding me of the pain of failures

and times when words shot like lightning

torching our midnight skies

and stinging maladjusted eyes.

 

At first we shone as the birth of fire

to the primitive women and men,

now dimished to flourescent lights 

to the weary school boys and girls.

 

What once was intense wonder,

now a history of young mistakes;

such a fascinating bed to lie in.