The Creaking of a Windmill

The creaking of a windmill after a long work's day...
The feeling of exasperation, not knowing what to say...
No longer a child, now, no time to play...
Knowing what one wants, but not knowing the way...

Unravelling at the seams,
not following dreams.
Only a stitch away from falling apart,
right back to the start:

The smell of a house with walls freshly painted...
The newness of all people, all objects untainted...
Innocent and naive to the enigmas of the world...
The sight of a healthy rose, before its petals dry and curl...

When all was new, all seemed gold,
that in time, only a fool could hold.
Crumbled pieces lie in the hands of the realists.
Oh, how blissful to be an idealist!





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