I am the tiles beneath your feet,
The air you breathe.
A door that opens and closes,
A laundry line left alone
in the winter months.
I am not for you,
Nor are we for anyone else.
For I am a rock on a mountain side,
A fly in your soup.
Nothing more than the dust
Swept under a rug.
Nothing less, than the clouds
In an endless sky.
The life, running through our veins,
Runs through all we can see.
A bird, a stick, a metal disc.
We stand on a level plane.
As a chess piece,
I lose to my fellows.
For we are all pawns.
Or we are all queens.
May 16, 2012
May 16, 2012 at 12:38 PM UTC
I am the tiles beneath your feet,
The air you breathe.
A door that opens and closes,
A laundry line left alone
in the winter months.
I am not for you,
Nor are we for anyone else.
For I am a rock on a mountain side,
A fly in your soup.
Nothing more than the dust
Swept under a rug.
Nothing less, than the clouds
In an endless sky.
The life, running through our veins,
Runs through all we can see.
A bird, a stick, a metal disc.
We stand on a level plane.
As a chess piece,
I lose to my fellows.
For we are all pawns.
Or we are all queens.
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