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The Age Is Not Me

What’s so wrong about wrinkles?
On my face, on my clothes
People matter, not how they look
The sounds they make though
The music they compose
The thoughts they suppose
The pages in a book
It will never be read
It will never be said
Because nobody ever heard me

What's so wrong about a grey sky?
It’s like that, depending on the sun
It’s the view but the hot is what it took
I close the blinds, then I open them
It’s all my face can compose
It’s my age all I can suppose
But my mind, maybe you should look
Now you know, it’s my place
But time will never be my race
Because nothing you say can rush me

What’s so wrong with black and white?
The movies and the difference
Color is not a saint or a crook
What’s best is not what you might think
Not the past you might compose
Not the truth you might suppose
Was it just the lies your fears took?
I wonder what happened to faith
The seventh day became the eighth
The one God said is not a part of me

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