Coppice.

photo 5 (11)

Advertisements

Games.

My subconscious is more my conscious of late

My dreams roll into my days

There is no great mystery

In where my thoughts are leading

They fall in patterns at my feet

And trip me

 

And when you’re asking me

Why I’m always early and you’re late

We find ourselves on our feet

And echoes of our shouting lasts for days

But it’s not as though I didn’t know where this was leading

But to you it seems it was a mystery

 

Loving a good murder mystery

I laugh when you say you’ll kill me

Because you’re joking and leading

The way when the bulbs have blown and it’s late

And in a few days

We will sit together smiling again, with restless feet

 

It’s quite the feat

To keep up the mystery

And after days

The clues that you leave are still unclear to me

Think, isn’t it rather late

In the game for all this following and leading?

 

 

I thought you were leading

So I followed the imprints of your feet

But, rather too late

I solved a mystery

And found there was no foothold here, for me

Even after having wasted so many days

 

But we’ll give it a few days

To settle like sand, and see where it’s leading

Whether or not it’s leading to me

Where I fall at your feet

Is no mystery

But we’re both tired, and it’s late

 

Turning to me you mention that you’re not a fan of mystery

And I see I’ve been dreaming days too often, swan-diving into reality too late

So I fall over my own feet and land on where they were leading