nobody ever grew up because they wanted to
age is a chore
an ever shrinking cage
accepted with a facade of freedom 
like a tyrant's ringed hand  
brought towards the lips. 
the years are a burden, 
ephemeral as an imagined memory, 
a hypnogogic fantasy 
lurking 
at the corners of sleep. 
we define ourselves 
in a world 
without language, 
a screaming splash of neurons 
desperately wrestling to tell a story 
and disappear 
forever  
across some far horizon. 
childhood is a kingdom of mystery and potential
of wants and dreams, 
which are discarded 
one by one 
until we are left 
with the person 
we are always going to be
dreams turn into memories
and fictions freeze into facts. 
adulthood happens upon you like a drought, 
the last rain barely noted in it's passing.