we all face is the falling—
that gradual descent
between young energy
warm spunk
and the weary bones
eaten by each and every day
the heap is not a bad place
from here I can see lights
those supers
and below the murmurs
of discontent
the stirring ashes
churned by their own chagrin
and right next to me
a face
the light from the stars
dimly illuminating
the curled down lip