Young ghosts comb dreams so vast
they splinter in twelve and are bruised irregular
by twenty.
Your age is the number of stars that have fallen
while you sleep.
Streets are proud doubts–foul charm, but proofed.
A sometimes can seize but an always can cease.
All visions of progress: much heard, less seen.
Photo Credit: Bruno_Caimi Flickr via Compfight cc
