Life just gets so lonely,
don’t you think?
When all you are is a self aware worker bee.
Taking each one of your gifts,
letting them fall off a cliff,
into a blender,
tornado made of torment,
because the world goes round and round,
and you just never notice.
I suppose the night will fall,
as it’s supposed to,
and the sky will never be particularly spectacular,
and I’ll watch Paddington,
under a blanket,
wondering why it’s such a chore,
to manage anything at all.
The roses I would buy,
every weekend of the winter,
remind me that beautiful things can still be born in the harshest conditions.
They are blooming,
just out of reach,
when I’m falling asleep,
somewhere between four and six,
AM or PM,
either way,
it takes far longer than it used to.
