You would have died some time ago,
and several times over, since;
lost upon yourself, your day of birth:
as well as of the reason to be born.

In a gruelling process of ascent,
there upon this ever wearying rut;
mind and heart raised white flags,
leaving behind an ill-worn tune.

Perhaps it explains this spectral jaunt;
of faded jeans and dog-eared books,
as faint lip balm fragrance dissipates,
your erstwhile existence from us torn.