Wednesday, 23 July 2014

What You Mean

I sit here, surrounded by nowhere, and no one
By teeming but silent life; exactly where it needs to be
Smiling flowers, that know of their season on earth
Flamboyant butterflies, aware of their transient beauty
And fleeting moments of a warm English summer breeze 
This never does last.

Enveloped by silence; no traffic, no sirens, no words
And yet deafened by the raging thoughts in my head
The incessant beating of my heart; wanton, careless
I breathe you, feel you, conjure you, dream you
You say nothing, but somehow, I hear you still
This cannot last.

It's inexplicable, what you have come to mean to me
It's like the shade of the tree under which I write this
Like the ground under me; hard and uncomfortable
Like the seeds and bugs falling from it's branches into my lap
But yet there is a comfort I can't describe, or escape
This will not last.

This single blade of grass; I ponder its destiny
Of rain, sunshine, rain, and the mower's scythe
It's like me in many ways - it's also like you
Weathering the weather, keeping up appearances
Staying where we're sown, doing as we're told.
Does it have to last?

The rules will never change, or bend, or be accommodating
Our prisons are not forced on us; we build them ourselves
There's a bigger world I know, that you never would
There's a bigger world you know, that I never would
My way is better than your way, your way is better than mine
Neither is going to last.

I think about my grave often, and what I'll take with me
It won't be my accumulations, or favours I've earned
It won't be laments of those that need to be seen lamenting
It won't be the love I give; zero cost bears zero value
It'll be the love I get; my worth is not my own to ascertain
It's the only thing, that might last.

Post a Comment