Muse.

Distant dreams lie untouched.
In fear of a jinx.
A pause in thoughts;
Everything crumbles.

A dream with eyes wide open.
I see this, nothing more.
Here is the vision.
Understand much more.


Walk the road of everyday,
Smell the simple life;
Wishing it was exquisite,
A Routine molded, never mended.

See them talk of jet planes,
Of craft so complex;
The mind could fathom not,
anything beyond a sense of time.

Hurry down the steps;
In hopes for a glimpse,
A sea of eyes speaking more
than their latest date with peril.

Crunch those brown leaves,
Yellow ones, awaiting:
Their fate written in those veins.
Not unlike their wizened old friends.

Make the way back home,
Do what you always did;
In the end, nothing matters.
Nothing will and nothing did.

Because,
You walk the road everyday,
See them talk of jet planes.
Hurry down the steps,
Crunch those brown leaves.
Make the way back home.