Like an improper montage,
I keep pieces of days and years,
For I am not sure what to keep,
And what to let go of.
Like trees through a car window,
They go fleeting by.
I revisit them time and again,
And the facade has faded.
I see everything for how it was,
Not through the rose-colored glasses anymore.
And there’s a beauty in this too,
The line between innocence and naivete is so thin.
The days go by,
Right in front of my eyes.
Saplings I planted,
Now trees, bending over me to reminisce.
And as I keep growing,
The smaller I feel,
For how does one feel accomplished,
With so much left behind.
And we never cease to grow,
Our bodies might,
Even when they begin to shrivel,
In accordance with time’s might.
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