In between the lines on my brow
the times of my life.

A storybook and in the mirror
I looksee to see what became in
the times of me.

The gloss that fades to several shades lighter
the night a young man went to woe
(which is like a meadow, but not quite)

It seems I have ploughed up in brow lines
long forgotten headlines,
deadlines were meant to be broken.

My question is this,
was the girl with the kiss curl
looking at me
when she blew a kiss to the crowd?

nothing is easy to fathom out.