But much younger, perhaps ten.
Blush cheeks, more hair,
No wrinkles, no scars, no limp
And none of that deception at every smile
That has sunk to my very core draining me
Of every substance that I cherished.
Is it still me? Or someone else? This photograph
Is but a dead thing but I envy
The child that was me.
But from another age, another life, another world
For I can see he sings
A strange song in a tongue
I have never known
And his feet dance to a rhythm unknown.
This child is not me.
It is a Ghost that I long to be.
Woe, I grow old to be human
And all I disdain.