Staring at my ever retreating horizons.
Watching, as the colours fade back into grey.
Can I pack my bag any better,
Now that I know where I'm going?
Am I any more likely to succeed,
For being older, and more tired.

Another day fades into dusk's waiting shades.
Should I mourn the death of another dream?
Another weary child finds sleep has no answer,
To the merciless sneaking and creeping of memories.

And I am waiting for the sun
To lift my spirits, with the hem of night.
Waiting for a new day
To convince me that this world could be alright.

Staring, at my ever retreating horizons.
Watching as the colours fade back into grey.
Am I really more likely to succeed,
Being older, and more tired,
Than the heady impetuousness
Of a young child.