Ivory Towers

This is not my first burial.

I used to pray

while wearing painted clothes.

Now I don only sin cloth.

All my favors devoured

within the walls of desecrated ivory towers.

I

not quite elderly,

yet my youth entirely spent.

A mirrored encounter,

my history sung

within the moth-eaten pages of a diary.

Youthful yesterdays bound for discovery

laid out fine and

set on repeat.

Lessons doomed for duplication

throughout all my ages.

For I have yet to absorb

that when all manner of positive things

are finally fulfilled,

it will be returned to me.