Pinkish skies, and not a scribble in sight.
Just my thoughts & I, to contemplate a new day.
Observe & I observe, and a it's a little bit more of the universe I deconstruct; piece by piece, brick by intricate brick.
Breaths are low, but spirits may rise.
The picture of the sun, goodbye to the moon, and oh the sweet sound of tides.
It's all beginning now.
As the birds wind down, and my breaths speed up, so do the contraptions that I so desperately dream to escape from.
But I adore it: the revving, the hustle, the picture on a new paper finally takes form.
And the sun creeps higher, spirits you can only admire.
As pink turns brighter, eager to resemble our fire.
Dedication. Remembrance.
And sometimes we even find ourselves wondering "why stick to the grind like this?"
There's something inside us that grows more, with each passing day.
Death whether it be, or passion quite possibly.
It never stops. It never ends.
The pot only thickens. And we beg for answers.
And we beg for answers...
For questions, we don't even know how to ask.
Questions we have yet to ask.
The spirits have crowned, they've risen & the early morning haze has finally been drowned.
Some ashes fall from smoke, some smiles born of frowns.
And it's like we never even knew where or when we started.
But the moon must come back, and our sun shall wave goodbye.
As our spirits come down, but the tension stays up.
It's the end we think we see, despite all around us...there's evident beauty.
Even in the darkest forest may you find even a speck of light.
For, could we know one without the other?
But the cycle continues; mindless distractions keep us busy.
Much too occupied to stop, look around, stop calculating, just see.
And the sun rises again. For a new picture has begun.
