Sunday
Monday
A picture of days gone by
Dewy air
The rain in full swing
Listening, looking at nothing
Guarding these moments in silence
No escaping the fleeting breeze
Mistakes encroaching upon small things,
gradually
Past those of importance
Onto old mistakes by turn
My slavish and unyielding tongue -
Not anymore.
Beneath the clear I try, to no avail,
to peek
Words start playing coy
Having grown accustomed to
We have both been weaned from the truth
Speaking of ideals in fiction
Unknown expectations
and the trails we'll blaze,
yet
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