The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own
With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places
Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears
For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return
For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return
To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home
When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.
Nov 9, 2016
Nov 9, 2016 at 4:46 AM UTC
The fall comes, the wind blows,
and the withered leaves drift off,
tell me their tale,
uncannily becoming which is,
a story that is my own
With pangs of longing,
and nights of shooting stars,
I stick out,
my heart on my sleeve,
and travel to places
Becomes one with them,
yet hymns to an old folklore,
my heart, as I sit in an archaic café,
gets lured to the colourful streets,
and yet roams the bygone nooks,
and whispers in my ears
For the sophistication I have become,
For the coffee I have taken to,
For the dreams I have let go,
I must return
For the sky I have not forgotten,
For the tears I have learned to hide,
For the dances I have not danced,
I must return
To the book I have come out of,
to the character I have become,
I must return now, I should go home
When under the stars, in a meadow,
I’ll watch a storm struggle by,
and lay content on my back,
having withered the hurricane I’d become,
when I hear the sky talk back to me,
I’d know I have come back home.