Amidst the daisies,
all I could see,
was you.

Just us alone,
beneath blue sky.

You beside me, eyes closed,
wind tracing its fingers
through your hair,
bathed in sunlight,
your soft smile lingering.

Oh, how I envy them—
for giving you a peace
I can only dream of.

I know a way to alter space and time—
Open a portal between our worlds.
It’s a simple eight-word code:
‘Hey, I miss you, how have you been?’

Close your eyes and ponder
When was the last time you ever let yourself wonder?
When was the last time you asked and inquired of things;
that rekindled in your heart that fire?

When was the last time you let yourself roam free?
When was the last time you let yourself dance in the rain with nothing but pure bliss on your face?
When was the last time you ran barefoot on a beach; the last time you let the sand cover your every inch?
When was the last time you chased fireflies at dusk or the last time you skipped stones across the lake?
Why did you make it your last and let it all fade?

When was the last time you saw the sun melt into the sea?
Or the last time you climbed a tree just to touch the sky?
The last time you lay on the grass looking up to the clouds in the sky…
Why did you make it your last? Why?

You never knew it’d be your last; your last time chasing fireflies or your last time skipping stones.
You never knew it’d be your last time touching the sky and letting some warmth get to your bones.
If you never knew it’d be your last then why did you stop?
Why did you stop letting the rain wash your face? Why did you stop skipping stones across the lake?

Open your eyes.
Who said it needed to be your last?
Go out there, do it all over again.
Run barefoot on the beach, let yourself roam free.
Go and climb another tree and see the sun melt into the sea.
Be as carefree as you used to be;
Because who was it really?
Who said that it needed to be your last?

It's now been years,
moments frozen behind glass.
with our fingers interlaced,
like lattices of coloured paper,
neatly folded into swans.
Bold, elegant, proud.
a small army of comfort,
in the small battlefield.
with rows of paper flowers,
all blue, lavender and crimson.
once alive with our laughter.

squares of paper,
left strewn across the floor.
torn, ripped and split.
now burnt with hate,
burnt with ruined passion.
leaving a charred memory,
scattered among the ashes,
drifting away, gently.

Like the swans you used to fold.

Marching on a field of white
lines striping the way.
Piping on my clarinet-
marching band back in the day.

Drilled through the heat - harsh light,
sets perfected by the night.
Playing solo’d make me fly
but together we can cry.

Move as one, hitting dots, our bodies spoke music,
the songs we once knew, now distant and elusive.
Reeds left unopened, my mind's gone acoustic-
echoes remaining from memory once lucid.

I’ve tasted the echoes of a flame; inhaling silhouettes of the night’s
smoke; wasting time under the clouds of downhill voices, speaking
low on my worth.Where I recall my mother’s voice as the sturdy
cane of discipline – as we read about disciples who were just
ordinary men; we were orderly raised, where being scolded a
third time about coming to bath at five, was just a part of our
ordinary days. My most trusted companions where the imaginary
friends I made up – who knew they'd get me in trouble, if I was
found talking to myself while I play.

And I don’t feel that old, but nostalgia has been resting on my soul;
the better parts of it, and also the worst – where I grew up with the
biggest fear around girls. Though part of that fear still remains, only
we changed the fear of girls, to a fear of falling in love with the
wrong girl. “But I love her though,” by that statement I'll know
I’ve definitely fallen underneath the floor.

I hardly questioned my flaws; until I grew a little order and started
to be so aware of them all – then I grew a little older, to soon realize
they’re all just a part of us all. And I don’t feel that old, even when
the wisdom I get isn’t always the same wisdom the youth can own –
still I hope their purpose is the one thing they can own.

I have to keep a piece of self-worth in my silver thoughts, interlaced
like a plait – even when I think up a few corny bars; I still see
myself as platinum. Signed here... a Platinum baby.