tired eyes sweep dust from pages
written by those who tried
their entire existence
to understand it
what compels us
to find words
for the unfinished sentence?
if our wings were clipped
why do we still attempt
to fly?
reflections in dilated pupils
speek fathoms of
who I could be
who you might be
we buried them without knowing
why
white noise
does not silence
the wandering mind
Apr 10, 2015
Apr 10, 2015 at 7:52 PM UTC
tired eyes sweep dust from pages
written by those who tried
their entire existence
to understand it
what compels us
to find words
for the unfinished sentence?
if our wings were clipped
why do we still attempt
to fly?
reflections in dilated pupils
speek fathoms of
who I could be
who you might be
we buried them without knowing
why
white noise
does not silence
the wandering mind
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