Number One

A poem from a series I wrote that may potentially move into self-publishing mode.

If we cut off the intersections, we'll close the roads,

we'll no longer be connected, and the wildflowers will grow,

some say the grass doesn't grow where the dead lay,

but where we put ourselves to rest seems to be growing every day,

if we cut off the tire we'll no longer have a swing,

the ropes will hang lifeless where our motion once lived,

no longer swaying back and forth trying to keep our feet off the ground,

our feet hit the dirt and our knees fell down,

if we crash the car our bodies will vanish,

people will remember the scene but forget the anguish,

but maybe that's how its supposed to be,

when you cant let go then the pain is all you see,

sullen in the boat that's sinking,

the Mary Celeste was home, but it suddenly lost the feeling,

so I drown, I drown, I drown.

if we cut off the intersections, we'll close the roads,

we'll never reopen because we grew too old.