harsh voices that said things so soft
but they'll never be heard again, they live only
in the heads of those who remember.
flowers of exotism and neverending
colours that will never bloom again but
in the heads of those who remember.
times of warm laughter turned bitter
and the look of those who strive everyday
to make the worse a little better.
I dream with green eyes that have grown
opaque and in them I search for a gleam
that I'm not really sure was ever there.
losing myself between the pleasantries
of the memory and the bright hues of the
ever so tiring today, if only it would stop
attacking me so blandly and tenderly
throwing its tentacles of hope and objectivity
around my peaceful resignation (desperation).
I dream with a day when I finally find
myself and everything that surrounds me
starts making just that sorry bit of sense.
until then it's grey sunny afternoons and
keeping all the memories away until they
become uncertainties and eventually melt
into ringing bells in autumn mornings
where you can actually smell what is now
in the heads of those who remember.
