on growing old
in the midst of a tumultuous crowd
my eye wanders to lone spaces longing
spinning yellow lights swiftly pass by stolid towers.
the soft breeze speaks to me
whispering a melody of lonely tunes
heartache like passing youth and
brief moments that live only for a day
to set with the sun and sleep in Luna’s arms.
like piled up moments until we grow out of our clothes and the days sparkle less in color
laughter but a perfunctory chore
-a tireless serenade lost with the rosy seasons of our youth.