Oh, the names are gone
Faces are hazy in mind,
And all the horses in that field are white.
Upon arrival of a familiar coach I find all it's passengers, as strangers, familiar.
And on seeing her after twelve years,
It most certainly was not her.
And on waiting for tomorrow,
After a mere ten years,
Will strangers greet me related only by name?
So what of the similiar parts we may share,
those little snippets encased within my mind as a coping method,
as the years go on i grow out of clinging on and become something of...
Another stranger.
They'd never know me if they saw me.
So why, just by knowing my name, must they care so much now?

Alright, I've given myself six hours,
And still i cannot disolve the information into manageable portions.
Here i sit, awake as i am by this hour in the city,
Willing myself to sleep.
And whilst the quiet here is almost too much,
Something i crave with so many others around me,
It lingers.
What have i become?
And where i am sure to tread next shall be just as unexpected.
I see i havent even taken in the change of decade,
for i refuse to believe it should start so abruptly!


Here i shall lie tonight, and of course not only tonight,
But before morning even comes I shall wake once more.
I know there's a call and I wish to banish it so,
Sleep through the light hours as i usually do..
But tomorrow it calls, and asks of my awareness.
It asks for smoother words,
it asks too much of me!
I fear it has always asked and yet i have mistaken it's voice for my own!
Those wonders i do, the chances i take now, are they merely myself breaking through?!
Perhaps it is not so unusual that i should seek her,
nor is it unusual that 'that' is most certainly not always the answer!

I wish you could see as i do,
I fear you might one day,
Through half a coach window i watch these horses,
to my radicle fear once more...
I see now the cows are all white too... And my will begins on them to be brown!
When come the day i see a crow all in white, and when might it happen that the white magpie follows?!
When do i lose all the colour of my youth?
That i weakly applied where ever unsuitably possible,
and when, might I ask, do the monotones shape me for norm?

I lay back again, upon white sheets, in black dress.
I feel the colour slip from my skin, but still the breath falls into my lungs.
I wonder, here, in this pale room,
Why those who did have left me?
And ponder the delicate douses of red that now fall to my bed,
as if from the brush i not so long ago was able to paint with.
Petals turn from red to white,
Here it is, my sanctuary.
Not a customer, not a stranger's glance, not a shopkeeper's glare nor an old passing friend.
Do the others know where I am?

I'm sure their thoughts this evening lie within themselves as mine.
And i wonder on the colour of their animals.