The silken days roll past me with their unpredictable grace,
familiar faces, same old places,
writing with my usual splintered pencil,
as I write today's date.
But I forget.
What is the day, today?
Is it tomorrow, yesterday, could it possibly be now?
For my eyes see things so clearly,
and yet my mind takes it in like the sun would a cloud.
But I'm not hot.
I feel so cold as I sit on this bench,
eyeing the autumn leaves that twirl at my uncoordinated feet;
my skin is pale as though I had shadowed myself for years,
and yet all my life, I have loved the outdoors.
But I'm living inside.
Inside of my soul and my never-to-be dreams,
unhealthy, dangerous, confusing and taunting,
is anybody scared as to where this is going?
I'm not. I never am. I never see the danger until it has cut me.
But I heal far too quickly.
As though the blade never kissed my flesh,
as though I never cried my tears that were brought forth for no emotion,
for I have been moving in life so slowly, taking everything in,
I have never sped up, never taken a huge step; I remain peaceful.
But now, I stop.
For these are my graceful days. And I want them, forever.
