all day
we grow older
and take things in
our arms to hold us aright
then there are six hours
after the sky tips
over soiling the colours
the part where the music turns
last ditch giddy
and we grow young
somehow it's enough
or it never is, but we accept
the compromise and go home
propped up all the way
with the things we never let go
even as we flung
the rest of the night
we grow back old
older again
the things we took in
to hold
end up soft swirled
piled on top
keeping us warm
pinned to the night
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