winter spring summer glazes
taste the same when the cake is isolation
spending time mindlessly in dark caverns
emerging only for sustenance
i barely had time to note the time i wasted
pressure rests heavy on my heart
as i struggle to breathe through it
years go by and then a thought-
what if this is just an extension of maybes?
is not just more of the same?
regrets sweep away, the moonlight is painted over again and again until it becomes sunlight