Thirtyfive
Thirtyfive is a strange age to be
trying to figure your shit out.
Mistakes of my younger self,
long shadows cast from the setting sun
stretching miles ahead on uneven roads
towards a sunrise
uncertain
Thirtyfive is too old
for the grace of failure,
too young for gray wisdom.
Time idly spent watching
the stick figure dance to rhythm unheard,
To songs unsung, flipping through the pages of life
unlived
Thirtyfive is a looking glass
— a shattered reflection of cascading buoyancy
floating together in cobalt. vibrant and deep, aloof,
swaying, drifting into the unknown
Mesmerized by things that never were
The void of dreams
unfulfilled
Thirtyfive is a gaping wound
cauterized by Self-
Love. Scars
of healing blisters, jarring to touch
numbed by the friction of seconds tick-tocking into days
like the sun rising from the west, these miracles
unbelievable
Thirtyfive is a tree
rooted in glory,
planted unceremoniously in a graveyard
for stale ether. fodder for fresh hope.
The brush of verdant branches grows only in fertile soil.
Yesterday’s ashes bear tomorrow’s fruit
for Thirty-six