Touch of grey (2)

days have eyes    
and the memory    
of a pachyderm    
   
rhythm    
that lasts    
is slow    
steady    
deep as catacomb bellows    
   
the heavy old    
warm a mug    
for the lovely naive    
returned as embers    
   
molars    
grind nutrition    
out of years now    
the fangs of hour    
dulled by minutes    
   
and as such    
my muse no longer    
surrenders    
to flash    
   
breaking the ice    
in a crowded bar    
is far different    
than getting the attention    
of forever    
   
cannonball soft    
   
content    
by herself