I was born early, under morning’s rays

The world had depth then and bright colors
At 20, the world seemed to flutter away 
It was so thin, made of paper instead of clay. 
 
The days seem to unfurl now like a large canvas 
Upon which a clock face is painted
The past becomes little distractions
Wills to be directly remonstrated. 
 
As I age, I walk towards midday 
There, I find vague desires of pleasure 
A trip to the salon to see 
beauty play
Upon my face and reshape my character. 
 
What marks the passage of times allowance
The people that I have befriended 
Their voices linger like fading incense 
At midnight, their memory will never be deepened. 
 
In the half-hours between decades
I found a woman who could escape 
Not the clock or times charades
But the smallness of self-hate.