Wax Poetic

A Cold Morning Walk

24 January, 2009 (15:28) | Wax Poetic

As I walk down Memory Lane,
The past runs like a river behind me.
Over the cliff, down the steep hill,
Trees protect us from falling back down.
They block the clear view of the river,
As mental scars block the pain of memories.
If we descend down the cliff of time passed,
And lose our footing, our bodies become like a plinko chip
Tumbling down, but never knowing where we’ll stop.
Some have made it down without a bruise.
Some have even taken out a tree or two.
Though you feel so close to all the river from above,
The view is always better from the top.
Though you think you’ll make it down just fine,
You’ll never make it back up to where you were.
Where you are. Where I am. Where we are.
As I walk further from the cliff’s view,
I look back, and wonder where I’d be without you.
Probably lost, injured, and hungry, somewhere in that valley
Foolishly looking for something familiar, but not knowing what.
With my hands hidden from the cold in my pocket,
I face the future, and begin walking.
Left foot, right foot, left foot, right foot.
Left foot, right foot…

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