When do we hear the footsteps?
As destiny brushes past,
do we deny it and keep walking?
Never finding one thing to last.
Sometimes with eyes wide open
strolling lost through life’s new days
with a twisted kind of conviction
completely blinded by the haze.
The colours are so vivid
but we’re deafened by their noise
bleeding muddy and lacking contrast
silently we maintain our poise.
How pretty on the outside
just like peaches, luscious, ripe;
concealing all the truths and sorrows
beneath thick layers of hype.
We’re much like the sunblind bird
who, knowing the way to fly
still smacks sharply into the window
not soaring upward to the sky.
Must we always write these words?
Is that all we have to say?
Is it causing our ineptitude?
Or just the price we have to pay
for silly-happy moments
that poignantly we treasure
and paste firmly in our history
convinced that they’re the right measure.
That they are the happiness
ridiculously we seek
so boxed-in inside our comfort zone
afraid without it we’ll be weak.
Being barefoot we so hope
the path remains on the beach
simply soft and warm with no rough ground
though it keeps life out of our reach.
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