I pour myself four fingers, or maybe it is five, sit in a broken rocker and slowly close my eyes. I muse on my survival for nigh on eighty years, A victory in heart, despite a wealth of tears. My mind goes whistling past the graveyard of my youth, Where childhood lasts forever, so distant from the truth. The sunlight turns to twilight, and shadows dark are cast. Then phantoms reminisce, articulate the past. I fail discerning youthful faces on the stage; Decades disguise them with the tragedy of age. Those denizens of darkness look not the same to me, but spirits old and crippled, my mind refuses to see. I stare upon the visions of friends long passed away, Their images of long ago, these times now betray. The years had left them blighted, and shocking to perceive, No longer cute or raffish, the years gave no reprieve. Then slowly meld their features to match a youthful day, where times were almost happy, they slowly walk away. My consciousness is swirling, no balance left to find. These wisps of faces dwell in the graveyard of my mind. Phil S. Rogers is a sixth generation Vermonter, age 72, now retired, and living in Texas. He served in the United States Air Force and had a career in real estate and banking. He previously published Everlasting Glory, a historical work that tells the story of each of the men from Vermont that was awarded the Congressional Medal Of Honor during the Civil War.