And we sit beneath the evening trees,
amongst leaves,
that have lived their days in captivity:
Never allowed to be free.
Held to their branches,
from daylight to dark.
Until they die,
and then are - almost cruelly -
cast aside.
How apt, I think -
and gently smile.
To myself of course.
Humour like that could
end with us
shouting ourselves hoarse.
We pause to sit a while,
and then we move, like seasons
through a weathered groove:
Repeating cycles of love and hate:
But perhaps this is how we relate.
We are too old now to drift apart,
it's youth that follows a reckless heart.
We cannot leave, and this we know
For we have nowhere else to go.
And nowhere else we'd rather be,
and so my love, you're stuck with me.
