Flowers

Repeating the same thing,

Every single day.

Lonely when I’m alone,

Even in a crowd of people.

Then I remember that everything is in transit,

Everything reaches an end and somehow that’s comforting. 

 

Sundays always come too soon,

The weekend speeds by,

Until the new week begins,

The same, the same again.

But change is the only constant in life.

 

I can never get my head on right,

Everything moves so fast.

Time cannot be controlled,

Cannot be contained.

My thoughts swirling down the drain,

Slipping away.

 

I send out so many letters,

I write even more.

But no post is for me,

Only bills and weeds.

Useful for cleaning up the stains.

 

So many games, so many rules,

Do unto others as you would have them do unto you.

Everything’s written down,

But not everything is followed.

Whichever suits the suitor and their tailored ways,

A tuxedo, a three piece or maybe mourning.

 

I bought my own flowers,

I could have chosen better.

But my hands are cold,

and the soil was futile.

They manage to bring some comfort.

 

– E.H.

 

 

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