Grass slopes down and
white pillars rise.
A sleepy hand upon the snakey shod shoots
up and fades out. A white mist high above and far below; in between
crisp greens and mulch browns,
far below, the sea.
The change that happens every year.
I don't want to be the same
and more and more I try to change,
beaten and battered back to who I've always been.
And you just don't want to change,
wishing backwards to the days to stay the same,
days that are already gone and away.
But I miss the change that happens every year.
I miss you when you're not around
and miss you when you are, passing softly in a different way.
Days that remind me of days that remind me of days
make me long for change.
And you dig through to the core of you.
The further you come the closer you are to who you've always been.
Watching patterns and counting the teeth
until lives repeat.
They say I'm an old soul,
but aren't we both -
Waiting until time stops
to finally die?