Betrayed by Minute Hands

I scour my mind for things to write, things to say. Has a dam been built to manage the flow of ideas? If maturity is the stabilization of thoughts and feeling let me grow younger each day. Back to the roots of blissfull youth when my emotions mimicked the horizons of Canmore. When tenacity made me immune to the cold instead of the numbness that does so now. Let each birthday remind me of what I was becoming. Let it rain as I imagine, each drop originating from a fountain of youth. As each wrinkle becomes a crack in my old skin, revealing a glimpse of my younger self. As the crow abandons his perch on my face let youth engulf my soul in passionate flames. Let me grow young.