Pines scatter in the distance,
as day becomes night,
branches slap weakly at the window,
pushed by a sultry wind.

I'm now a person who can survive,
so long ago I left childhood behind,
though once there was something,
that now counts for nothing at all.

Life is but postponement of defeat,
a growing estrangement from youth's unfettered love
a knowing there's always something left unsaid,
before we finally acquiesce.