Poem: Untitled.

My soul doesn’t age,
hence I trust not my years,
nor time’s passage—
or the taint of birthdays;
frosted pastry and sparkling candles,
soda pop and birthday cards,
and unfulfillable wishes;
these ruins, wrought from the
ritualed winding of months.
So, better I cut the cord,
Peter-pan myself,
if only to never forget my broken toys
and sink only into my own
fragile delights.

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