The sage burns, the high wears out; and back again I see I’m not alone…
It wasn’t you that I was writing for.
You’ve already heard each word cycle back again.
I wrote instead for the burdened naïve child I am and always have inside.
I am older now, but younger still I’ll always be.
And it’s for him I’ve written.
No, you already know better; you’ve grown beyond where I am and will be.
I am always just a kid in shame;
An old man growing wiser.