Youth is finite, and so is the summer,
But never can one indulge in hope.
An idea may be like a rose,
Blossoming in beauty in the mind's garden,
Yet wither in the harsh climate
Of an even harsher reality.
Why must a day be so bleak,
With no utter chance that we once might meet?
All I can do is swim in my thoughts,
Drowning in the deceiving liquid fire;
Sighing in the blazing heat,
Elbow-deep in my self-made mire.
For what is a laugh
If no one is there to return it,
Volley it back with sparkling eyes?
And if by some chance
My memory is pulled by your brain's unconscious tide,
Swept off the shore to the unknown,
You will forget my name.
Never to resurface
Under the depths of the grey matter sea,
Deaf to the sound
Of a soft winter's plea.
Dirt and grime,
Speak in rhymes;
Amuse me for now
Until somehow
You and I
Steal each other's eyes.
