Two melodramatics, I called us.
The world Would think we are children too
young to be born. Six billion people are one by
one hurled Into a deep well, but you and I
mourn
For you and I only. Sometimes we
fail Or forget to acknowledge there’s
more to the quest Than our own timid ghosts, white
lost in the pale Of the fog drifts that slowly
roll in from the west.
We take things for granted; when
you’re happy you’ve Always been happy, when sad hard
to prove You were anything ever but
miserable. How It will always be cold just
because it is now.
And what is it about us that
makes us deprive Ourselves of the joy? I
remembered that we’ve Sat in the dew watching fog
drifts arrive, But never sat watching them
leave.