The point is reached, sometime,
often after youth is discarded,
left behind for better things,
where we no longer celebrate
and only mourn or mark
the passing of dreams, of memories,
of who we thought we'd be
and, now, can never hope to know.
The day stops being special
when it comes every year
and you keep changing but, somehow,
the day is no longer sublime,
merely dross, merely a reminder
of all that that never was.
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