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The Way I Once Was
October 5, 2009
When we’re younger, we see things.
The wind as an artist
Molding the clay of clouds from a bird to a tree.
We see the fairy in the flower,
Feel our wings as we fly in our dreams.
When we’re older, we tend to forget the good.
The clouds make it rain,
The wind slices down to our bones.
The flower is in our way
And the fairy does not exist.
We can’t fly and never will
Because we won’t survive
if we take a break and breathe.
Silly, strangled minds.
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