Skeptical

I was born a boy without grace,
Now I'm older than the wisest man's face,
Better than none of you,
Hold my hands and let me spill forth,
But a road formed of stars I may take,
I'm willing and this grounds beginning to shake,
Underneath the clouds form a pillow,
A song of winds and I'm growing skeptical,
I'm starting to forget my face,
I'm still tripping on the greenest of hills,
A sky so blue it pulled me in,
Showed me a sketch of relief,
I'm skeptical about the weather,
Whether or not it'll place me in the heavens,
I'm skeptical about the sun,
Sooner or later darkness will become dictator,
I'm skeptical about the colors of the night,
& of the changes they can bring out in you,
I'm starting to forget why we all remember,
And then just forget,
I'm beginning to forget my face, again.