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Father Time's Gray Hair
Days are born like weeks,
Beckoning to bustling businessmen
Weeks age like months
Projects polished to be poised to perfection
Months pass like years
Youth is held high in healing hearts
Hearts of the youthful beat hungrily,
Still naive to the pimples formed on Earth
Touched by the screams of shoes and the ones who step into them
Though only sheepishly looking in the eyes of their bosses
Their thoughts filled with trees and carbon,
Thinning the hair of the earth only to earn what cannot recover theirs.
The eyes of the dead yet living,