You spend a million moments
wrestling the truth.
Or waste away a thousand wonders
reflecting on your youth.
Regrets fall flat; forget all that.
A search can birth a blossom.
Bud a bloom, a youthful you,
And touch so much; the possible.
You tend to gaze at your own life
through a one-side point-of-view.
Or dig in depths to find the words
when the point is far and through.
You mean so well. You prob’ly know.
It’s more like, “What to do?”
A constant tear and nagging fear.
A dull and digging gloom.
Pretend the world was built for more,
but together it dies too.
A season comes, grows, changes, goes,
and maybe, so do you.
But time can race or stop or slow.
It’s more like, “For who?”
A question. A forward quest in thought,
an answer part of you.