My apologies.
I am not that special,
nor am I unreplaceable—
a twig-like existence, swathed in cellophane,
happed under the cold waters,
rippling from the first drop
whose source is something
I can never know.

It's late spring now—
time for bees to buzz around,
for the winds to breeze warm specks of dust and flow,
for birds to fly unfettered,
and Deer and cows to graze undeterred—
the lives of whom
I can never know.

Complex, wimpled words weave fantasies,
cloaked in mantled gazes of the spotlight.
But I remain a spectator
on the sidelines of this dream,
just floating and bubbling away.
It could've been fun,
has been dreary,
or will be fleetingly hollow—
I can never know.

A flightless songster, who never learned to fly
but only sing in derivatives.
Unfulfilled and uncertain,
a stale and trite narrative of life.
Someone faint and transient,
who always dreams of the greener grass
on the other side—
a place I didn’t know I left behind.

Now I look back,
to where it all began,
little by little,
moving past the point
of where I am, was, and will be.
Except this time,
I can and will know
the end and reason
for this wistful season—

For I have lived through it before.