june 5
june 5 what shall I leave? what should I hold on to, and what shall I grieve? it was august when I yearned for the fall - it's past spring, yet the flowers still reek of a pall. it's of a hearse of who I used to be, carried on the shoulders of so many myself, among them; how poetic the justice I could never condemn. where are the nights and golden lights I lived for? where are the soft pink skies I once awed at? are they still there - are they still that adored? what other realities haven't I explored yet? june 5 what shall I reprieve? what should I remember, and what shall I bereave? my heart crosses itself in an agony, waiting, and waiting to be rid of its irony - how mundane its purpose: to live, and laugh, and love, how cruel its fate: to survive in spite of.