In His Youth Poem by D.C. Malone

He came from the ghostly hums of the powerlines
That hang overhead of the empty lot
That only you and the world's last crow knew of
When you two were almost young

His likeness is echoed in slightly the chipping paint of the off-white wall of the house you have grown comfortable in
Lit by a single scented candle and smothered by boiling atmospheres
That smells like the feeling you felt in your stomach
When you were almost young

He is from the warm, flickering sky that lives just behind the silhouetted, organic forms
Of Autumns spent staring at the pale ceiling listening to love songs
That remind you of an quote murmured by a tragic author
That was spoken before you were even young

He reside in the feeble limbs of the incorporeal, blind nostalgia of nonexistent memories
And in the sighing hues of the meek folk of bygone days
Who looked best according to their spouses
When they were almost young

And yet, he is still here, stuck in his room
Abstract? Yes. Undefinable? Yes.
But still here, helplessly falling in love with the tarnished portraits of strangers
Young