We grew young into our years
   hand-me-down shirts and the family car
  ’til our clothes fit better and we tracked MPG’s.

 Life was a match, a bonfire, sparklers in the street.
   To burn bright and go to sleep seemed fine, reincarnated
  as 8am ear-worms on the coattails of a dream.

 Echoes are not undying though - and my days
   are never enough, to get done and undone
  chasing horizons, writing with light.

 I have not solved the problem of energy
   the space between one and another thought
  time between captured smiles worth telling in stories

 My time, your time, aligned somehow.
   We always give chase to those coming things.
  Now and again though, we do look back

 turn to pillars of salt against
   the red and orange of our histories.
  I have not solved the problem of energy.

PoetryLukas Robertsontime, age