Golden Years Poem by Brooklyn Joy

Black cat's shadow holds my vision in an angle of attack,
Attack at the back of my mind; frigid and black.
Pen to face, a position I find mself in over and over again.
Again to the saddened state with my face to this pen.
Fire in the corner burns, with a continuous desire;
I envy my old days, with stupidity which I was dominated by.
By and by, but eventually these days were disregarded by I.
Now I have slight wisdom which furrows my brow.
My brow which sits in an intensity; ageless from the now.