Days of the year are the sameThey pass by like the wind
like the bird that flew passed the window
and never seen again
They leave nothing significant
It's like we're held on strings
by a professional puppeteer
Yesterday and the days before that
are all dissolved in a blur of memories
We know we were there
We know we lived
History and science can prove that
but that doesn't change the fact
that even those days we thought would matter
already set sail with the wind
out of our very own minds
on a crash course to the burning sun of dementia
As days piles up under the wrinkles of time
as the end draws near,
we realize that....
this life is a lie.
No comments:
Post a Comment