And it's almost
Too good to be true:
Friends who accept me
And the blue blue sky
Stretching above us,
Balloons, bubbles, birds,
In the air,
On the ground
Everyone is dancing, moving,
Running on the spot-
Stuck in a loop of time,
Almost.
And I must be grateful
For the good days,
The dreamy days of
Laughing and talking,
Walking and sunshine,
Aware of growing old
But denying its imminent
Presence.
For now we are shadows
Made stronger in the beating
Light of the sun.
YOU ARE READING
Petrichor
PoetryWe grow old eventually {here are the waking thoughts that consume me}
