Sweet Age of mine

I was young. That isn't a breaking news, I know, but yea..I was, one of those faraway days, young.
What's the meaning of age?That lovely monster who can be really scary when needed, those deformations which rules us all, with the steps we surely know, we surely can't relay on that knowlage. A ravish kid, then a lusty young pal, then a reasonable man, then a wise oldie, then--if you are been a hunt by our predator here--an anciant pathetic courpse talking.
Can we relay to those dumpy stereo types?
I guess the lovely thing is that we do not know. We really do not know. What we gonna be, what we were, what we are. Even with the "others". Is that kid is annocent as he/she looks? Is that man is wise as he talkes? Is..Is..Is...?
Age. Is it a myth, or a sweet god we slaughter our souls before His door?
You see, those are questions, endless questions, Age is the mighty creator for questions. Some we'd know its answers, some we'd not. Some we'd forget the question, letting the answer be a new question, by our organic maze law.
Yes, I was young, but I still have questions, wandering down my head. I neither young nor old, neither a squashed wonderer nor a definate god.
Gods have no questions. Gods have no age.