Picking Dandelions
Picking Dandelions
What do you think our chances are,
I asked,
as I picked another dandelion
to ease the cold anxiety
gnawing inside of me?
A wish on a star
never came true.
No voice can ever tell me
why my heart sings,
or how badly I feel the cold
on a sunless eve,
or why I wipe my tears
on my sleeve,
or why I try to escape this existence,
knowing I can’t live without her?
I have looked into her eyes,
and when they were clear,
it was as if one could see his tomorrow.
She was life,
and she was mine for a brief moment.
Now, I like to pick dandelions
and let their wishes go,
watching them float away,
soaring free.
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