People grow their hair and cut there hair. The hair thins, the bone structure morphs. The friends move, the lovers change. The past a tickle or a sting. Old stains wipe away. Some scars here to stay.
New exercises, fads, and books shape our state. While others are left packed in the closet waiting for a chance to play. What does one do when there habits fade? Where old ones once laid.
The street bustles with the changing face of shame. The forgotten tourist, the once seen landmark. All passes and dents the pavement. Solitude found in every chamber, a church of I, isolation easily courted around the fountain of memories.
Within these walls the gossip of city chatter sculpt the lonely view. The mindful glitter, the plentiful wait for the pearly gate. The gutted christ and the pending genius. History a lie and yet the story is told. Bus loads of tours, salivating cows hopping on to catch the hour. One man, one woman = gold. The social calamities merge the collective fear of letting go. The inhale that never stops, a tide ago.
We are together, caught in the feathers of presence, an organic spaceship of temporary perspective. A stale bread expecting to crumble. Life passes us by whilst we imagine another. Not our own. Here now? Whatever the now is, an owl, a passive wave of the finger. An epoch. Gone always gone.