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.