Prods and Echoes

(A prod), my teeth were whiter then and more of them too. (An echo), perhaps I just laughed and smiled a lot more. Hints and echoes prod the ghost of my subconscious, Smells, songs, colours and tastes force me back in time. A sleeping dream stirs the inner, making one restless, For future hopes and wisdom, but that longing for youth. To remain the same. Without loss of self, prods the inner child. Skewered illusions impaled in doubt crying like Vlads victims, What hope of that as I watch my body’s metamorphose, I blame gravity not age, nor lack of sweaty health reasoning. Preferring to bask in recent history, but alas, history it still is. I thank my parents for my hair, speckled grey, unkempt, but there, If only I had their touch to ruffle it, how warm that would feel. (A prod), my teeth were whiter then and less of them too, (An echo), perhaps I just laughed and smiled a lot more.