lunes, 9 de noviembre de 2015

LXXIII

Did I not too climb your mountain?
Did I not too see you fall?
Were you here when I was falling?
Or had I just been gone too long?

I just wish I could now go back
But was life really ever like that?
Would you still wake on my choices?
Would this aching hand grow tight?



Living is essentially burdening oneself. Experience will fill your future with ghosts of moments past, of people lost. Forgotten dreams will come back with sorrow and distress. Familiar faces will pull strings of memories; as a story told can push inwards, helplessly leading down.

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