Shadows and Dust

When did I become the old guy?
When did all my judgements
My lamentations of past generations
My pleasure in incensed
Address to who I saw
Was fucking up
Who made this mess?
It was me.
It never seemed as such
Until my words came back
To land a blow, and blow
Upon my crown
Made of paper mache
Ground from pulp of words
And angered sounds
I tried to use to slay
The wickedness I wished
Away
And only now,
And happening in sight of all my proud remembrances
I wince, and sometimes laugh
At the tragedy of my own
Arrogance
My hands
And lofty stances
I hope, one day, I understand.