I am not as old, neither am I as young, betwixt time I exist, right in the middle of her existence. I know her as much as I don't. She's golden, I am silver-She is jubilee, and I am the divide.
I am the infant of her retrospect, the hope of her birth.
She is old, she's young, she's weak. She has exhausted the remnants from the labours of her heroes past; now she starves from the rottenness of a mediocre present. Her arms stripped off her coat of many colours-she is naked, she is hungry, she's the celebrant.
Who will help her? seeing that she's come of age. She is the paradox of her type-having everything yet nothing, given so much yet wanting.
The only thing green about her is her past.
Her hair scattered from her scuffle for pleasure-vanity cost,
Her white stained from the rigours of indolence-'dignity lost.
Who will help her? seeing that she's come of age. Chuckles from her neighbours as they walk past, thinking to themselves "greatness, of all things to make a thing of the past".
She is old, she is young, she is alone. She enjoys the free-doom of her independence, consciously dressing vines that have never been existent. Her friends took a trip to space, but she wont tie her shoelace.
I am not as old, neither am I as young, betwixt time I exist, right in the middle of her existence. I know her as much as I don't. She is golden, I am silver-She is jubilee and I am the divide.
I am the infant of her retrospect, her hero present.
