When does the young become old?
When white and grey crowns its brow?
When creeping cracks weather a sign into absurdity?
When novelty becomes mundane as a rock?
When sufficient time has passed?
How much?

Such a thing alludes the mind,
A blurred line on the page,
With no pen in sight,
Its incorporeal to the vexation of the impatient,
I guess I wouldn't know...
I'm not that old anyway.