I stop to turn forty today, Realize that dreams, Never outweigh, Measure up to, Equalize the hardships, the pain. When futures become repetitive, Like a line at market, And all the faces look alike. I can't dash away. I've never run from the solid, Cultic stone where I "belong." Instead I weave a single thread, Permeate as a vein of gold ore, Through the granite and the limestone. I am eighteen Elitist up to my loftier extremities I believe in Love and Hate and God. But I stop to turn forty today, To glance in the mirror, In dissatisfaction, regret, hatred Of my future being. I deceive in passionate mumblings, Where all the heroes die in the end, Where my stories are crass, And callous, And rude, But my tongue rattles, Happy to receive a knowing ear. I stopped, Not to turn another age, Not to continue an obscene existence. I stopped to wonder what I'll be, Tomorrow, And the day after all tomorrows, Have turned to Autumn, With a Winter's breath.