Mature as me

A poem about the absurdity of emotional 'maturity' and everyone who thinks they know it.

Building, as such.
The development of our lives.
Each day an edifice for the next
Bleeding slowly.

Loss of momentum means
We drift, we dance, we don’t
Ever arrive at the forest
But an icy moon

Hangs overhead
A reaper, of sorts. Progress, not progressive.
Our thoughts go flailing
Hissing out in the ether

And you, my Princess

Clutch at that cigarette
Like a last straw, like the cliché
Banging off against the sun till
Evaporated

To see so much
Through the smoke, to be intoxicated by it.
Lovesick, lifesick
Mature.