Those star-stricken skies that once watched
our world now begin to flicker away as
my skin begin to age, my eyes find more to see
and I realise that I have grown old enough
to miss something from the past .


There were once
grassy plains that stretched across the land and grasped the edges of the sky,
wooden fences that I waited upon for neighbouring friends,
and flowers that mixed with weeds but still looked content;
those visions are ones that cannot be seen.


I remember
the relief of jumping in large lakes on a hot summers day,
the times were I would inhale the mellow dewdrops after a storm,
the blissful sinning of drinking from my father's glass bottle;
I remember those times but they are fragmented with cracks
lining the center of its core.


The sounds
of baby birds weeping for their mother's warmth,
of crickets chirping at the burning sun,
of children whose words had grins;
those sounds are a distant memory that I wish
had remain fresh in my mind but are only a collection of
wilted, quiet, languished noises occurring in silence.


I often question
how the city lights block my stars that shine through its own darkness,
how machines have become friendlier than the people here,
how the winding roads never end at one place but now conjoin with each-other,
how the pavement plants can only grow between flaws of concrete;
the town I once grew up is nothing like this city.
the sight I only recognise, the one that has never changes,
is the bottom of the beer bottle;
but it's more bitter than I remember.


Everything is different but at least I have working hours.
But in those lonely times like these,
I'll miss those country roads.
The roads that once ended to show rolling hills
with the sun glowing underneath creamy clouds
and the scent of happiness blooming from flowers.