Let's have a contest.
I want to make you do nothing, nothing at all,
Right there is the magic, yes, nothing at all!
Your stress is a needle on a compass
That prods you until it goes right through you.
Like ghosts, it will do you in and pull you out,
Spilling your innards in the same old mundane cadence.
You say it like you mean it, but for all the wrong reasons,
"The trees aren't falling in a sequential order,
The qunitessiential color of this arbor is not right for this season."
I'll just give you a reason to stay true,
A reason to breathe when the leaves leave their hue,
So that you both can remember for as long as you can
Without ever having to keep count again.
No comments:
Post a Comment