Friday, 27 April 2012

One I Haven't Written Yet

Walking on
the same tired path
that took me home
when I was 6 years old.
Past the fences
which always seemed so high;
now they can't contain
my ever growing sigh.
I follow the stream
wherever it's flowing to.
I used to watch it and dream
that I was floating too.
But those dreams are beyond me,
I'm anchored to the floor
and I cannot turn back to when
I was young enough to dream for more.
Yet I'm still taking shortcuts
rather than taking the long way home,
too hasty in retreat,
too anxious to be alone
I still step in puddles
and drown in the mess I've made
but I can't help but savor
watching all the wet spots fade.
I wish I was still young enough
to get excited when I see my breath
I wish I was still cold at 6...
6 years further from death.

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