Maybe I’m the green again, too deeply rooted to discern what on the surface seems but blue and simple. That every path is daylight seems suggestive of my missteps in the light of being lost for losing every way before.
Maybe I’m the blade of grass to bend beneath the better feet, in hope of second chances and of circumstance to interrupt, for begging is the best I’ve got, and gold is all I trust. So bring me sunrise, and I’ll waste it.
And not to be so broken, but these flaxen days, they drain me; the only strength I’ve left is for a drink of something grey.
And maybe it’s too much to ask for passersby to understand I need to be the trampled one that grew from dissaray.