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.