I stared down those weary eyes and sewed seams worn and wrecked from a hardened fight. there are quiet moments that I never knew were real but I guess they’ve always been here.
if we’re really meant to work until we die, maybe not as steel as it rusts, but more like rivers carrying away the dust we should remember…
phone calls with old tin cans and found twine cause in these years there are so many choices that have drew divides yet some say they’ve untangled crossed lines. so much we only figure out with time. I just hope that somewhere before these graves there was a fiercely lived life.
because we are meant to work until we die, never as the steel nor it’s rust, but like those vespertine flowers at dusk.
now I heard of subtle patterns, of colored movement where there were only grays. and it was told the disparate, where we had always lay was merely illusion if we would simply live and not wait.
so, I wanted to see it move, and it did, just imperceptibly slow. imperfectly as it goes. I hoped to see you move, but you couldn’t there was just too much in tow… imperfectly is how we go