Non-Parasite Divergance two: What a nice day for a depressing poem

We are fragments of a shattered mirror
Rusted too long in a walled off room
We are the screws that hold the creaking floorboards
This house is our body, and we have become it's veins

Youth can only be seen from the corner of your eye
In dusty plastics and awful flower patterns
With sepia-drenched smiles, the frozen look out through a pinhole.
I find myself wistful of the days of simple blurs and vibrant colors
When I was so eager. to. be. and existence! was limitless
But now it seems to me that this is only an imitation
A wooden mask of some great hero, where only flecks of paint retain their splendor
As the crescent mouth creaks, years to scream, smiles perfectly.
Maybe I was just unlucky. Maybe other children knew to stay.
But there are no heroes here, no glory, significance, or reason
Only absurdity, and well-hid hints of inspiration.
How is it that I, who was never old, feel so removed from my youth?
Longing to forget all the causes that led to fights, to battle, to war
Wonder and abandon worn down by relentless clarity-
and heavy-ing step as the world comes into focus, dulled by itself
And with only itself to blame.
The dead stare off into a dark room with only questions
Always dieing, never reborn the same, they wake and never mourn themselves
Always dieing, and reborn
never themselves.