I see people float on like leaves.
Gliding, soaring, humming about,
not a care in the world.
Glorious reds and yellows,
triumphant, even in the knowledge
that they will all end.
And so I drift along as well,
but not with a whisking of the wind like others.
I slowly make my way in the
murk of a puddle, rolling through
mud and the accumulated pollutants of
what ifs and slow eating depression.
What I would give to fly.
What I would give not to feel.