Youthful exuberance never grows old; I suppose, until the creeping ivy cradles your gravestone.
This life; to me, is a passing train that always makes its way back around. Just not for you.
Every stop lets off the lost and picks up a child; weary, on their first day of school.
The hero in my mind rides, toward the destiny where he dies.
The wink inside his smile; resigned, for one more longing look up at the deep blue ocean canvas, where he penned the story of his life.
In his fading grin, he whispers one last nothing to wind. A cool breeze carrying his freedom. The silence, his last season.
The silent season