Each day passes,
like the day before,
today becomes tomorrow becomes yesterday,
and the dreams of youth, like seeds cast upon a barren field,
with age,
become dust.
Each day passes,
like a blown autumn leaf before the winters breath,
held carelessly,
then gone.
The nights are fraught with infinite promise,
yet are unrevealing of intent,
like a closed book to a blind man,
time moves,
each day passes.