Thoughts –
uninvited guests,
unwelcome pests.
The murmur!
Conversations abound,
you don’t make a sound.
Thoughts –
these memories,
déjà vu epiphanies.
Clueless!
Ambiguous,
but ubiquitous.
Such thoughts –
talk amongst themselves,
books on the bookshelf.
The noise!
I can’t hear myself think,
I retreat under the kitchen sink.
Thoughts –
swell and rise,
as the last one dies.
Unsolicited!
Trespass,
past your best guard.
Thoughts –
forgetful,
and unthoughtful.
A life planned,
or so we thought,
on course and on track.
It’s what dreams are made of,
an oasis where the outside world,
passes by like the clouds overhead.
But reach one milestone,
you begin the next –
youth is slippery like that.
We can’t hold onto what we have,
for what we want,
we do not know.
One circumstance,
one decision,
life turns inside out.
New plans drafted,
a blank canvas,
and new roads
you never knew were there.
It is a grey day,
no colour,
no light.
It is overcast,
at the behest of winter,
it is bleak.
There is no life,
no rain,
no wind.
It is dull,
people mope,
it is sad.
Uneventful,
solemn,
and boring.
We wait,
for the sun to shine,
or for the clouds to burst.
Anything,
something,
patience is wearing thin.
Day after day,
there is no relief,
of winter’s monotonous personality.
No colour,
no light,
it is a grey day.
Lewis Walddren 