It's All Been Done

Well, it's over.
It's all been done.
Three times three.
The room in fluted candlelight
really shows its age.
Fancy that, in the mirror
I see wrinkles.
Through the ducts,
voices fade.
Celebrations have passed.
Once,
when I was young,
I took the town.
The meadows on the outskirts
were thick with lust.
In the garden of a visual yard,
I see a lack-luster statue
of the Virgin Mary
holding out her holy robe, beckoning
to me.
Through a peaceful mirage,
I picture my brother, in fearful tears,
who was afraid of his shadow at night
playing Peter Pan out back
when he was just a kid.
Now, he's dead.
Now,
it's all been done.