The old faces, so fresh and full of verve
greet my heavy head, haggard and harrowed.
I cannot tell if we've drifted apart
or if our separate paths have narrowed.
Their visage is a taunting reflection
of everything that I could have been,
a diagram of my distancing dreams
with labels pointing out things I've not seen.
But if I start to look past the facade
I see they're just a ghost in a jester's attire,
their smile extends either side of their jaw
but it isn't matched where their eyes lie higher.
So I'm quite content to be rugged and rough
because my honest form is comfort enough.