We were all snowed in, thick unyielding white, and now our climate's run it down to asphalt, marrow, like a slow machine.
I keep looking for signs of age, I cultivate my own wrinkles; fine lines expanding from my corners. Folded skin in girls and receding hairlines in boys, conservative dress sense turning us into circus clichés. I seem unable to differ infatuations from heroes, catch my fancy peering from your grave, byronic protagonists.
Doesn't this hammer the ground of our understanding, –
Our fundamental differences
Our apparent insight
Who are your heroes?