There comes a time,
when that fire of youth,
burns up,
all that is non-renewable within you.
And you become fatigued
as the muscles of
your ferocity
ache and cave,
in line with a desire,
to be anything
but numb.
Age is,
the number of lies ones told themselves,
etched as lines upon a weathered face.
Time's a winter,
that freezes shut,
a once sacred place.
The dream lives on,
until it's over.
And the dream,
is over.
