#24

Old ones watching the colours getting exploited

and the sip I took

of war-fires and treachery,

tells us to sit afar.

Swayed by stories moon-shine tells you

and dreams personated by perfection;

darkness will take him and perhaps you

and will stare me from the blanket you sew.

 

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Just a tourist

I thought my early days were fawner

Hazed by forgotten and numbered days

I had one pen, one voice and different minds to keep up with

Yet I couldn’t keep up with my own.

It began in the brighter days

When my days weren’t bright at all

I saw lines as vividly as I can

And friends were none to keep.

I was just a tourist

Passing by their lives

Peeping through the lens

Of which I shouldn’t lie.

I made the art alive

Breath as fresh as it can ever be

Perhaps to be broken by someone

Younger after all.