june 5

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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.






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