poetry form

i go my way complacently
the agony of having too much power
the arches of the red bridge
truely
pushing out, struggling vainly
if it
over the rooftops race the shadows of clouds
one by one, like leaves from a tree
desolate and lone
out of the deep and the dark
sing again the song you sung
among the smoke and fog of a december afternoon
stir
this is the song of youth