soul tired
A boy grows old
not by the hour
or the day the year
but by the deep soul tired months
that drag
The moth on a pyre of scroll
doomed to deem his own flight
he is flushed, rushed and jubilant
a bed of feather and vanity
If old was tired and tired old
age would graph beautiful
time grafted to growing
a buck moth bucking hot air
Still
a man grows old, soul tired
parchment burning
deep before deeper
dragging the fire
fanning the flame