Waiting for the sounds to silence,
For the focus to be found,
A bombardment, a constant assault on your senses,
And things flow out of your grasp,
The deathly sound of disappearing days,
That are wasted thinking of all ways,
But never taking a chance,
And never moving forward.
Slowly, with every step you take,
You break away from the battering,
The aching mind in constant stimulus,
And a small piece is captured by your consciousness,
Like a torn letter, part of the words come through,
And you wait to find the other scraps that were left behind,
From when you tried to reach out and grab the letter,
And it was snatched from your grasp.
Guilt is upon you,
For those pieces that escaped,
Taken by the west-wind Zephyrus,
And handed to the heavens,
But not to your heart,
The place where you needed that part.
Because we are the same.