Whispers of the day,
thread through the pages
as the journal fills with hopes,
dreams, and those things in between.
Drying ink. Wiped away. Maybe this will be forgotten
someday. Maybe it will. Maybe it won’t. She really
has grown tired of holding all these hopes.
The dreams flit from place to place. Landing
gentle on a smiling face. Held up and taken down.
It all continues to go round. Time has never stood still.
Sometimes I forget this but am reminded in the setting sun.
As I stand and watch it go down. Colors light and fade. Change.
Constantly. Until no more, but the violet of the night. Touched by
stars shining bright. As I have said before, all was as it is,
but the sunset clearly sees it.
