What
can
you
.
d
o
.
when
life
becomes
.
t
o
o
.
late
.
f
o
r
.
you . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
~ when
.
y
o
u
.
awake
.
t
o
.
find
.
a
.
strange
face
–
–
that
.
h
a
s
.
aged
.
i
n
.
a
place,
–
–
with
.
y
o
u
r
.
yesterdays
ablaze . . .
–
–
–
~ with
.
y
o
u
r
.
yesterdays
ablaze
.
i
n
.
what
could
.
h
a
v
e
.
been
–
–
better
days
.
h
a
d
.
you
realized
.
t
h
e
.
truth . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
~ the
truth
.
t
h
a
t
.
all,
.
a
n
d
.
each.
.
a
n
d
.
everything
.
y
o
u
.
once
owned,
.
n
o
w
.
owns
you . . .
–
–
–
~ they
.
n
o
w
.
own
you . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
a
n
d
–
–
–
consume
.
y
o
u
r
.
youth,
–
–
burning,
–
–
burning
blue . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
s
o
–
–
–
now . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
~ yes,
now . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
it’s
.
t
o
o
.
late
.
f
o
r
.
change . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
a
n
d
–
–
–
it’s
.
t
o
o
.
late
.
t
o
.
make
things
.
g
o
.
your
way . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
because
.
i
t
.
would
.
n
o
t
.
matter . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
~ it
would
.
n
o
t
.
matter
–
–
anyway . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
f
o
r
–
–
–
all
.
t
h
a
t
.
once
mattered
.
n
o
w
.
lies
.
i
n
.
tatters . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
o
r
–
–
–
has
.
b
e
e
n
.
consumed
.
b
y
.
flame,
–
–
leaving
.
o
n
l
y
.
gray
.
a
s
h
.
remains . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
Too
late . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
Too
late . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
Far
.
t
o
o
.
late
.
f
o
r
you . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
because
.
y
o
u
.
are
old . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
~ yes,
.
y
o
u
.
are
old . . .
–
–
–
.
.
.
a
n
d
–
–
–
the
days
.
a
r
e
.
new.
Reflection: This was a forgotten personal struggle-themed poem I wrote back in August of 2019 where the contemplator looks back on a life that has somehow consumed his or her entire youth without any awareness – for the contemplator now is old, but “the days are new.” I played the wonderful song “The Fatal Gift” by Emily Haines in the background to create the “moodset” for the poem. If you listen to the song at low volume while reading this poem, you might better get the “feel” of it.