Dust beneath the windowsill,
Falling to the ground.
So it seems it always is,
When no one can be found.

But when time is lost and memories are shot,
A room is still a room.
For everything that happened there,
No remnants remain to loom.

The meaning we assign to things,
Is a silly, trivial thought,
For the things that truly belong to us,
Surely can’t be bought.

Funny, though laugh I don’t,
Is the importance it seems to gain.
We are what we own in life, the masses scream aloud,
It all belongs to each one of us, no matter how mundane!

Love lost, meaning shot, everyone has long forgot,
The obvious incongruity of want versus need.
For it’s been years upon decades upon centuries,
Since reason has given up and fleed.

Expectations, responsibility, money, and deadlines,
All man-made problems only suffered by man.
Though that irony seems to evade everyone,
Naive to the master plan.

So take every bit of that conformity, unity, normalcy, sanity,
And burn it to the ground.
We can only be ready to grow,
When we have truly found,
A way to break the pattern.

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