You

 Out of nothing there comes a time called childhood, which 
is simply a path leading through an archway called 
adolescence.
 A small town there, past the arch called youth.

 Soon, down the road, where one almost misses the life 
lived beyond the flower, is a small shack labeled, you.

 And it is here the future lives in the several postures of 
arm on windowsill, cheek on this; elbows on knees, face in 
the hands; sometimes the head thrown back, eyes staring into 
the ceiling .
 .
 .
 This into nothing down the long day's arc .
 .
 .

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