Myth

Are you a dream or are you for real.
I can't say, I am still intoxicated by the
fragrance you wore last night.

Are you a miracle or my belief.
I don't know, I drowned in the deep ocean
of your eyes the first time we met.

Are you a mystery or my imagination.
I just can't tell, I am still lost in the world I
discovered in your lyrical voice.

Yes you are the myth I have always believed in!

Unfinished!

There is something elevating about early mornings. Perhaps it is the soft hues of sunshine or maybe it is the mélange of musical notes created by the chirping birds or is it just the smell of a fresh day. Everything is a bit dreamy, mellow, nicely languid, rounded at the edges. The optimism is disproportionate, even a little unreasonable. Maybe it is hunger, the metaphorical one, the one that is fuel to the soul.

Gradually though, as the sun ascends in its course it all starts to turn more real, more mundane, more gross. Memory of the morning tends to fade into a dream, an escape.  Edges now become sharper, sometimes quite blunt. There is a rush to reach somewhere, could be nowhere. The pace just keeps increasing and perhaps so does the distance to our own self. Everything is so unfinished, so incomplete. And yet I ask myself – do I need to live another day?