our steps spring through youth
lie waste to untold truths
hiding beneath the surface
we grow with untold bounds
life starts from underground
and bursts into a melancholic circus
this is a dance
you are a memory
and we love to be loved.
but let's not waste any time
figuring out which one we prefer
On a winter day I'm walking in the woods,
I'm walking with the trees;
their story-telling leaves beneath me.
How old, I often wonder,
Would one need to be
to read the dreams of trees?
Perhaps that's what we see
when we eventually leave
our livelihoods behind us,
and stumble in the woods
until our memories find us.
there's something in the distance
not so far that I can't see it
but too far gone for me to glimpse it.
this is what you wanted.
I can't decide if it's what I really wanted.
But only in the ways I want to be.
I'm terrified of the time that slips away so silently.
Am I alive?
or am I still pretending ?
Am I just extending a dream that's never-ending?
and it's all I've ever wanted to be.
I'm so scared
that this is all I am
and I'm so sure that this is all I need to be.
the tides are tied tight to the boats that lie south of the ocean.
the fishermen wade through their wages made just that day.
the seagulls prove costly to all but themselves as they help it to them
till the end of the morning is done.
Conceal our secrets in realness...
and tell me then that you don't feel this.