Condescension from the highest peak,
The lofty mount that pats the head of distant space,
Transcending all of time and every whisper of decay,
Our Lord from there descends.

And folding every pristine robe,
Firmly placing down eternal jewels,
Collapsing glory into feeble frame,
To sit in dust with us!

Eigenvectors,
Do walk along the threads of space,
They see the stars grow old and die,
Yet do not err their course long set,
Such proper fellows marching on,

Where to I ask - where to they know,
They do not share their mysteries,
For in sharing one has walked their path,

Such paths that put such words to shame:
As far, long, weary alabaster,
Shattered early on their very road -

Eigenvectors,
Do walk along the threads of space,
They see the stars grow old and die,
Yet do not err their course long set,
Such proper fellows marching on.

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.