18:11, a bird flies gracefully before me
As Victoria sings a turbulent water song,
Crushing off those stale worries from earlier today.
There's a cool air blowing all about me
And I can't blame myself for wanting to feel
Every second, every last hour of my 27th year alive.
The words creep from my mind cautiously-
I consider myself in that boat closer to the horizon
Whose pilgrimage across the vast depths
Begs my celebration, but the lone fisher upon it
Dares not accommodate thoughts of rapture,
Because a journey halfway, is a best friend to to the sadist biography.
Growing pains and regrets of wisdom gains abound-
The many excuses I can no longer post, or the nasty wishes I can't discuss,
Replaced by suppressed desires of youthful fires unspent
And a soul grown in age, but still young at heart.
The sun should not set on a dream though;
I've lived a full and undefiled vanity thus far.
And if I could attempt to count the drops of happiness,
That have kept my appetite for life wet thus far,
The lake before me might be a contending start, but probably
not sufficient in the matter of the many naughts required.
No comments:
Post a Comment