jack

I cringe to think of who I used to be
And even then I hated who I was before.
And then I look at who I have become
And guess how long before I must repent of this.

The six, the sixty-six, the ages of a man
Are layered about me like an onion
And everything before is still inside
Except, a rotted tree, the core is slow forgot.

And then look out and see the empty space
Out into which my allium must grow
But even as it struggles in the waning light
It's slowly left behind by faster growing life

But can I not just like it as it is?
And yes, somtimes I do like onion
And yet, and yet, you still can't help but ask
"Why does it make you cry?"