I have my eyes on the day that will never arrive or at least I see what I can't see that's how I survive the endless games, the hopscotching through the deserts and plains, my eyes see some distance but not far enough and it's tough here but here's where I am.

The day that will never arrive is a story that's told to the feeble and old and it keeps them from fretting about never forgetting their age.

I have a plan to escape before it's too late but not knowing when too late will be, I hesitate, play more games, find I'm locked in the cycling of chains, is this what they call the fall?

The fall is quite gentle, a soft rippling through the membranes and a full stop at the bottom or the end, it feels like a soft rain on my forehead where the love lost is not dead but stands waiting with an umbrella to hand.

I have my eyes and I see that the arrival will be a party time for old friends and the families that never end in the days that will never arrive.