When I was not so old, yelling from light poles.
On the corner streets, steaming sidewalks gleaming.
I was screaming, serenading myself into wishful thinking.

Humming songs sent from the sun, I was blissfully young.
My naivety was a yellow narcissus flower behind my ear.
I was eagerly waiting with the world for it's wonders.

Now, I'm hidden halfway behind shadows and secrets.
Sitting on benches built of bones and burnt out cigarettes.
Smearing the skin around my eyes because it hangs so heavily.

Managing, the only major motion I move, aside from breathing.
My chest a cavernous cornucopia for cannibalistic feelings.
I'm alone even when I'm surrounded by so many souls.

I falter as I find myself daydreaming about old days and their details.
Realizing, reluctantly, that days of delightful delusions didn't really occur.
I'm just a mixed mirage of mindless hopes and hollow wishes.

Weaved a tender web of wanting, at least I had been mortal for a moment.
I tried to believe I didn't think I was always so desperately discontinuous.
But that's a lie, I'm a lie, and I'll always be an allusion of an actual human.