The trees strive for more than I do,
They scrape the sky with such heedless care,
And I fix my eyes upon the trunk, watching IT'S moments,
But it's moments never pass, which simply isn't fair.
All the while, it is still waving at the sky,
Just as the hands, not my own, but of my watch,
Are waving at me sternly, telling me what a fool I've been.
But… another one just passed me… Oh, bye.
Though, an assembly of moments are in my pocket,
That I call my Memory.
She keeps my moments locked within her heart,
And she'll feed them to me, one by one,
like syrupy morsels that I savour by a single slither of my tongue.
She comes to me in the middle of the day,
Where the sun is at it's finest, and the trees are conversing by it.
She places a moment into my palm, which I clasp,
And I wish for such a twinkling to shimmer again.
But we know it can't, because this is what we call the past.
Though ahead, there's an open sea of smiles that I can swim in,
And there are miles of broad fields, that harvest phrases,
that will one day be spoken to me.
There is an impending storm of tears,
And an abyss of lonely fears,
that will occasionally nudge one another in their solitude.
The tomorrows will bring me baskets of fresh voices,
And tombs of expired time that perhaps were a waste.
Though, as I try to capture the tree's moments as well as my own,
I am not minding this waste at all.
I lay still, and Memory gives me yet another taste.
As sweet as she is.
