I thought there was rambunctious need in one’s life to cure itself of finding love.
but when I look at the snow covered whimpering cedar trees, I know it true.
The disciple of years spent and toiled and I love myself for being here
To note the years
And all I rebelled
I did what my family wants.
As if preemptive
A sick baby flew high
And turned a sick kid
And now the quarter life descends to doing what I wanted
And meeting the middle.
Looks different for you
And majority wakes.
The last best decision – is the hope to keep alive.
petrichor - archive 