The Marquis of Metaphors

Somewhere in between 
Our footsteps turned to music

I had a tendency to blink back tears
To stitch myself beforehand 
Like a social vaccine so to say
To stay rooted
And choose no way
For then the balance; it would break
And I would have something at stake
And I was afraid of being left broken
Someone’s memory
Another’s token
So here was how I spent my hours
With cold heart
And long hot showers
Making promises on blank, blind papers
I wrote of stones that floated on vapours;
Those dreams that were ruins from the start
Still left so for they were born torn apart
And the people they came to claim 
That all I could say was my own name 
Unaware, that all I had was my own mind
That was seldom, if ever kind
Thus melancholy is my poison of choice
And sad smiles my go to guise 
For then I can claim to be
Everything that isn’t me

Now the colours of life have dried
And I feel like the fog of midwinter 
Spread across sleeping fields
And quiet rivers running 
Like a toddler on a trail
Without wisdom or any worry
And no notion where to sail
But as I look back at the way I have treaded 
I know it’s the same where now I am headed 
To my beginning
To the end
I am nosediving so I can ascend 
Through the little hells I have clawed in my bones 
From the promises I made to the unknowns 
Like those flowers I grew around my grave
Knowing the wreaths won’t be there to save
Me, from the parody called pain
Watching my headstone go dry in the rain

Somewhere in between 
Our footsteps turned to silence