Every morning I awake to a black and white world before me,
And the gray in between
Is most prominent on the heads of men,
My own included.
Dormant rhythms of deep reflections cascade across my
Waking horizon; just a hush, barely a whisper,
But with volumes of echoes full of feelings I cannot escape.

A little older, not letting go of that youthful rasp, I stumble
And remember why I gave it up.
Yet I cling, Yet I linger...
And soon it will be shawls and whither. Soon, too soon
It will be bright brown shoes, umbrella dances and
Soft misty breaths like tea pots hissing,
And the deep tones filter through me sad and strange.