young and desiring, dreaming, drifting 
real and complacent, endlessly sifting, 
to see and feel and hear and be 
someplace besides where one ought to be -- 

to find in the stories told, and implied, 
that though much truth was said, almost everyone lied 
in saying one finds oneself one day, for good, 
and what once was gray will be clear understood -- 

for now years close in like a blanket, or noose, 
identity tied up in just how much use 
one can be to those who, while good to their core, 
cannot see you, just your age

anymore