A town whose people shapeshift everyday
keeps only worn-down roads and festive lights;
the shops, almost enchanted, switching names --
to change at will is to be true to type.
But though it's bittersweet, I must not dwell,
for dwelling simply makes me wish to die:
there cannot be a more merciless hell
than to be self-aware of time gone by -
so I face the days head-on, one by one,
thanking whatever deity's up there
for clockwork rising-falling of the sun;
a beauteous sight we're allowed to share.
Singing 'nostalgia' on our aged guitars
just picks at scabs that are to become scars.
Dec 9, 2017
Dec 9, 2017 at 10:54 AM UTC
A town whose people shapeshift everyday
keeps only worn-down roads and festive lights;
the shops, almost enchanted, switching names --
to change at will is to be true to type.
But though it's bittersweet, I must not dwell,
for dwelling simply makes me wish to die:
there cannot be a more merciless hell
than to be self-aware of time gone by -
so I face the days head-on, one by one,
thanking whatever deity's up there
for clockwork rising-falling of the sun;
a beauteous sight we're allowed to share.
Singing 'nostalgia' on our aged guitars
just picks at scabs that are to become scars.
baby's first sonnet. watching the future unfold in front of you is terrifying, but i'm attempting to convince myself that it's wonderful.
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