'Don't grow old' my parents croaked
As usual I didn't listen
But every through-line is different
And maybe we who come to the earth
Are really just heaven's rejects
Ingots thrown back into the fire
In need of further adjustments
Some achieve this in a few quick years
No return address on their unlived lives
While others wrinkle and ripen
Into wonder or rage or both
Lucky those who've saved a few apples
From the tree of life
And kept an in with the Cherubim
When winter brings its ice
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