as a remnant of something that used to be
void of emotion
a blank slate refusing to be filled
the air can stir, but I shall not move
for one with the ground I have become
I pray for the roots to retrieve me
to take me home
for the grass to spring between my finger tips
only to slowly wither away
Much like the time which has slipped my grasp
fading memories are all that remain
and even they,
are a remnant of something that used to be
No comments:
Post a Comment