We do live these lives,

our own in silence,

a tremble of reality sometime

awakens a quiet fear, a memory,

a melody that placed our heart

inside some other sometime fantasy.

 

If while the trees in springtime blossom

then where do the leaves return

if not only to hold promise in memory,

they did create a natural curtain,

a reminder of how simple our lives can be,

and yet, we will wait upon nature.

 

Our lives, our own, are circumspect

to the rumination of the mind,

that deep psychotic emotion

weighs heavily when in a constant remind,

we do somehow recognize,

as alone as we feel,

lies so many branches to our skeleton.

 

I once read about the ability

to change the world,

far across continents,

in the strangest manner

our lives do cross paths,

and we share secrets,

while our continued hope …

 

We will not survive the winter

without resplendent shadows

those reminders of an autumn

just like their own,

just like our own,

indeed, like the world alone.