Cross casted shadows falling on the stories of your face. Tales of the time when, you were young wrought with the fear of, what will I become? I remember the story running from your eye to your temple. You were only 18 everything was so simple. Drafted for the war, you would be a flyboy, this was it you knew it was no toy.
The tale of your bunker catching on fire, the day you were hired by NASA, when the astronauts cabin caught on fire as you watched. Houston, we have a problem. They rang you up, same way you came up. Special team #1 astronomical meteorologist, this stuff was legit. You brought them home the pioneers of the unknown. That story, can be found along the lining of your chinbone.
Each crevice on your face represents the race for survival of your memory. The cliff walls come caving in because to you, the memories are fading. The wrinkles are disappearing. I can try to help you be the pioneer of your unknown, but I know in the end, all that's left will be a little bit of your grit and wisdom.