Age is no deciding factor
as we reverse out of the slump,
bronzed in a flick of hair,
eyes shelled from their simmering.
The time of birth is a moot point,
some saying the flashpoint is all,
some that the pain haunts the castle,
rolling to an inevitable embrace.
Office hours, internalised, personal
commendation of the forest,
(as the book hints, gaze at him)
a solitude that bleeds when taken there.
With sorrow's intention, weariness
lends a shrug to empathy,
we're substantially water,
plastered by fantastic colour
a wall of erudition, of a mask
to protect those cherished lines
I learnt to stretch, by gut.