Charging at Windmills

When is the last time you heard from him?   

The questions that try to tread

so lightly on my feelings, dig

deeper at effervescence

levitating my soul.

Can I ask? Does the mention of his name 

make you angry? Sad? 

I’m never quite sure how to answer

these plays at my faith,

and understanding,

I want you to prepare yourself 

for the possibility that he won’t 

come back. 

Like frantically plucking out feathers

from a living bird’s wing.

You have hope?

I won’t call you stupid, but…  

The unknown is pleasant in the fact

it doesn’t kill off that hope.

It’s needed to survive, and sometimes

that fragile bit of false hope

is all that keeps us waking up,

and going to bed at a reasonable hour.

I can understand where you’re coming from

To follow our dreams, they 

are afraid, to follow our hearts,

we are fools, and faith and trust,

they’ve fallowed their own fields,

and enkindle yours.

Prepare yourself that he won’t come back.  

I’m sure they mean well,

they try to keep you secure,

and afterall, you’ve had doubts yourself, 

but

I didn’t want to tell you,

I saw him a few weeks back,

he passed me in the city,

and he didn’t say a word.  

The act is repulsive,

taking away any shred of

potential, to keep you “realistic”

or from getting your hopes up,

and what’s wrong with either?

If he wanted to be with you,

he would be here. 

Nothing.

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