There were words I used to hear.
In no particular language, bearing no particular form.
They weren’t even words, really.
In living so often the music is lost.
Forgetting the lake in harmony with the summer trees.
Fighting time which cannot be fought for things that cannot be won.
It is the rising of the sun over the rising of the tide.
That morning breeze whispering with rasp as it gusts a gentle “Hello World.”
No longer any meaning to the moments when conviction turned into a thousand excuses.
An imaginary friend thought to me in a tiny little voice, “Is today your future?”
The lark that never stays but won’t ever leave.
Is there time in the minutes before dawn, when the nightmare thief arrives late once more?
The feel of graphite breaking against the page with no sharpener in sight.
It’s watching the end of the world, and wishing it well.