Let's say that your poems wear old Wellington boots and walk through mud on the way to the market. At the market people buy these poems even though they are rather worn and dirty. Frayed at the ends. Threadbare poems. Used. Let's say that the hopes of your early years are not the hopes you have now. Once you wanted so much, but now? Some sleep. A day where things don't hurt so much. What things? Your feet. Your empty house. In fact, let's say that the sun skips your house today, all the other houses have sunshine. Not yours. Let's say that it is time for goodbye. Let's say you have become a memory.
We are those particles of dust that float in the sunlight pouring through the window. A good breeze and whoosh, we’re gone. Friend, we are not invincible. And that’s alright; did you want to live forever? Come. Let’s open all the windows and see what happens.