it let the bird fly, learn, grow, change. but when the bird falls, stays the same, decays, a thrill climbs up our bones as the crack of the wishbone echoes in our expectant ears like a loud, resounding gong - as our supposed fate awaits.
'When nights shall be drunk And souls be tumbling in revelry When the comic of roles end And cold shall be burning I await to call the utmost illegitimate side of us As my penchanted pleasure For you be semisane Caught half into adulthood and rest you know... Neither you nor me or they Be sceptical or carrying the peels of scruples Don't.
The colors that have drained from the dreams of people, lie cluttered on the doorway of their homes. Everytime they try to leave for something more practical and more safe life, that they chose, that awaits them everyday and does not keep them worrying about what all they can loose. Everytime they step out, even in hurry, they sidestep that clutter. Look at it from the corner of their eyes and for a second their heart seems aware of the frost that is killing it. For a second the reasons for the sleepless night and blank gazes is recalled. But the limbs keep moving to keep a distance from hopes that never materialize. On their way back home they dread to see the clutter of discarded dreams. But they want to believe that ignoring and forgetting it becomes easier with time. Although it never has.