Each month torn of,
pages upon pages;
confined by your past,
cages upon cages

Yes it's true
we all get a fresh page
but what if it's indented
By past writings and spaces?

Maybe we're all just
based upon our base
Defined by what happened
on a former date

But Still every day we try
searching hands, fingers reaching out
Almost there touching the imagined fruit
But still barely missing out

It's a rope made out
of roads we walked on
Chains made out
of things we dreamt and did
Clasped around our ankles taut
We'll never be able to close the lid

Thus when others see new dates
I see new maps to those old destinations
And when they open up hope's floodgates
I lock them up with familiar inclinations