I've turned new leaves
From Brown to Green,
Yellow to Red,
Dust to ash.
A week ago
Was quite warm,
Cold didn't bother
me very much.
Now I shiver,
Not alone without
But without within.
Guess I'm dying.
Not forever,
But for now.
Not a new death,
But a constant one.
That's waiting
I do suppose,
wanting things now.
Expressing fickle desires
Through prose.
But your needs now
Aren't the wants you'll
Have later.
Those are never ones
You plan for.
Sep 13, 2018
Sep 13, 2018 at 8:08 AM UTC
I've turned new leaves
From Brown to Green,
Yellow to Red,
Dust to ash.
A week ago
Was quite warm,
Cold didn't bother
me very much.
Now I shiver,
Not alone without
But without within.
Guess I'm dying.
Not forever,
But for now.
Not a new death,
But a constant one.
That's waiting
I do suppose,
wanting things now.
Expressing fickle desires
Through prose.
But your needs now
Aren't the wants you'll
Have later.
Those are never ones
You plan for.
To live in constant wait is to perpetually fall alone through the slips of time.
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