In the silence of forty winters too soon, Jordan stands at the edge of a weary noon. Thirty-four shadows cast long on his soul, In a dance with the darkness he cannot control. His mirror whispers truths harsh and unkind, Reflections of self-hate he struggles to bind. With scars like constellations on his skin, A universe of hurt concealed within. His heart, a well where tears refuse to flow, Words trapped in echoes he can never show. With a hollow voice, he silently pleads, Lost in a crowd where no heart intercedes. A wish to vanish in the night's gentle grace, Yet in the world, he's a ghost with no place. In a play where his role is but a fleeting sigh, Longing for release beneath an indifferent sky.