I see the color of your eyes has turned to gray I feel the wind is growing colder every day […]Sometimes, I hate the me that’s keeping me alive Sometimes I dream that I’m awake, and it’s not so bad. Like a drug induced coma, I’ve allowed myself to fall through the cracks of some requiem for a Christian era. We’ve fought the battles on foreign shores, and drowned ourselves within the sea. We are all but adequate. A cynics love poem pours from my lips. Sometimes we love those who help us grow, but other times those we love have us growing old. Am I the ager or the aged? I must choose my words carefully for fear of over speaking.