The world that surrounds us is hard,
Its conceit, to make us hard too.
We abandon the soft cloth of childhood
To dress in the uniform of being an adult.

The uniform does not fit every soldier,
It snags in places that discomforts many.
Concrete and its makers are hard
But we are smooth, soft and blood filled.

Our wrinkles are where memories live,
Stored there until they fall to earth again.
The aged mind finds whimsy once more
Where shadows of the dead and the living dance.