So young, so old.
With each day I hold
A new spot in this book.
With each day,
A new page.
A clean slate.
Will my words pollute the blankness?
Will they dance across the sheet?
How will I wake up in these sheets?
How will I wake today?
Or tomorrow?
Will I wake completely different?
Exactly the same?
Progress?
Will regression show?
I fall across this life like snow.
With no grace to show..
I wonder, how old?
How young am I?
And how right?
How wrong am I?
Maybe tomorrow, I'll know.
Maybe I'll find myself next fall.
I could wish for it all..
I just wish, I don't need anything at all.
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