light at the end of the tunnel

Lost the wonder of youth in all this pulling.
We have all aged a decade,
steamed to an early death,
the photos of a year ago stand as proof.
We were indeed younger then.
The groups now gather in desperation,
straining arthritic fingers towards one another,
so different from our early abandon.
And that is why they looked so new,
so green to me back in April.
We used to look like that too.
And I reveled in their hope,
borrowed it for a while,
but now theirs is failing too.
What is this place?
This hall of mirrors,
endless reflections of all my faults,
all my failures thrown back
in whining voices and pitchy posturing.
The bridge of my nose stands wrinkled
while I stand baking in the sun,
straining to understand strange melodies,
so often seem out of key,
out of joint in their violent whisper.
Have you ever heard of something being on kilter?
Standing in dream's desert
with my feel stuck in the mud.
Melodramatic, most assuredly,
and screaming self-conscious pity.
I get all bent out of shape.
Sometime I have trouble remembering my original shape.
But I think that's good.
Back to basics, on kilter, on point, in tune.
Missing the target, but had fun learning to throw.