As the years,

Have gradually passed,

And I rewind the past, ...

Some days,

I neglect to care.

It’s not a willing act, ...

Removed.

On the periphery,

Of today’s modern world. ...

Perhaps thoughts,

Are water like.

It takes years, ...

I used to climb,

Thinking it’s growth.

Until I learned, ...

Days,

That seem upside down,

Are no longer bothersome. ...

No matter how tightly packed,

Or thick the concrete,

Hearts often find ways, ...

When distracted,

I gaze into the eyes.

For it is there, ...

I often looked,

To discover the real who,

Hidden behind closed doors. ...

Today,

I’d rather float beneath,

Unheard and unseen, ...

Perhaps,

Despite the haziness,

I do know the way. ...

Looking up to climb,

Or standing below gazing,

From where I arrived. ...

Watching a river,

Soothes my soul.

The sound, ...

Sometimes I try,

In vain to understand,

What the artist feels, ...

On days,

When I’m wound up,

I habitually wait, ...

I like looking at images,

From the past.

It’s when the child, ...

I need to learn,

From those silently,

Growing trees. ...

When things,

Appear out of place,

My mind struggles, ...

Roads that call out,

Hoping to be traveled,

Are often not straight, ...

That which lays,

Hidden underneath,

Is ladened with stories, ...