Disenchanted.

I've been in this skin too long.
My mind has aged and
the wrinkles in my bones make me weary.


At which playground did the ignorant bliss of youth
fall from my pocket?
And why instead do I hold a broken reality in its place?
The edges are sharp against my rusting fingerprints,
cutting away the identity I had read into my palms.
The future trembles upon my lips like a question mark,
and my clouded gaze cannot see what lies ahead.


If I were to step into the open hand of serenity,
would my soul not be crushed by its unfamiliar grasp?
Would not the pressure of freedom knock out the breath
that caught so naturally in my throat?
And how would I ever maintain balance upon land,
with the rickety feet of a seafarer?


It is better then, that I remain here,
drowning in the waters of my own irises;
whirlpools;
galaxies that found no life beyond their borders.


And perhaps one day,
when I have walked ten thousand miles more,
I shall cross the horizons with open eyes,
and see once again the colours of souls
dancing in the sky.