“i think a poem about the loss of imagination/curiosity as people become ‘grown up’ would be interesting”
The echo of brown boredom calls us to crouch and sleep. Drift like it doesn’t matter -like the walls are untouchable.
Life is limited to time spent relaxed every heartbeat is aimed for blood to pump, pump, pump for regurgitating reason.
Days long ago were made for galloping- exploring the scrambled for fun. Tasting has dissolved into eating and the rubber of our soles wear thinner.
It is necessary to nurture the wild. Trap the stars in our eyes. Cage the craving curiosity. Weave nets to snag rafts. We perch on waves of melancholy; watching our footprints wash away.