It's not in years,
The counting.

For each year
I grow old,
The past it stays as rooted
And your warnings
Reign in bold.

Where at first,
Faint and soft,
Shortly after the making
It's like the years
Are an oven
And the stewards
Are baking

Seared and searching
For the "off"
To soothe
And cool down
Seeking the soft
But it won't come around

Dulled not a bit
Only vivid rewind
Time going backward
Merciless mind.