It seems that I am in need of a cure.
My eyes are forever moving,
My mind forever lost,
In dew that clings to spider webs
and autumn trees with leaves that are valiantly red,
in Forgotten highways and empty streets
and Easter trails littered with chocolate treats,
in summer skies glittered with floating kites
and twilight nights softened by amber street lights,
and hearts that bend and give for Others
in desperate and devoted Lovers.
I am captivated by eyes that crinkle
and aged foreheads that wrinkle,
By the spaghetti hanging off my spoon
and magnificent tales that are doomed.
By lost causes
And ephemeral pauses.
I wander and wonder, over the edge
until I think I have found my
I romanticise and fantasise,
there are no corners to my
I am of that Meta-physics
– anything that does not involve reason.
But it seems that I should ask to be solidified,
To be made Hard and Plain
A thing that can be contained.
I am in need of a cure, If
I want to exist in this world.
Not sure if I should send this letter.
Would you make me any better?