I can’t help but think
what it is I write
is perceived differently
by you.
I’ve thought about
how someday
I’d like to convince you
what it is I write,
you ran away from
didn’t give me a chance.
Oh I’m not talking of decades,
only months
and in those quiet moments,
when our eyes only spoke to one another,
no need for words
we were well ahead of any dialogue.
I can only recall
how tired I was
after weeks of worry,
trying somehow to find the answers
to finally say,
what you wanted to believe.
How do moments become real,
those that remain,
stay on the mind,
trigger our notions to react today.
~
When we wake in the morning
do we decide,
today we’ll slide
our lives into a deep cavernous fault
~
I remember being a child at young
and all my days
were spent with clays
modeling and forming imaginary futures
~
The sun burst through the morning sky
and I decided today
would be another day
to sit and wonder about what happened
~
Perhaps a little less emotion in my mind
with a callous edge
that non-caring soul
would help me live with myself again.
~
I wonder about the hours that lie ahead,
and will they remain,
just more of the same
or could this be the start of tomorrow
~
The wonders of the day are easily strung along
we just need to decide how far, and how long.
A Theatre Website 