The days, nothing more than collectables
A collection of hints
Life's little story unfolds
like little pieces of paper blowing in the wind
chasing them
trying to recover anything
to make any sense
Still a mystery, my mystery
People everywhere looking into your collections
So much easier than looking at there own mirror image
Suffocating from the weight of the world
I hold my breath past the hurt
Turning more colors than the seasons
Feeling every moment from a place others pretend not to have
There is beauty, even here
In the dark, in the pain
Still a mystery, my mystery
So deep, so far away
Yet so close
To the edge I could fall
I could sink in this drowning river of guilt
Flowing from every direction
Swallowing me, if I let it
Drawing boundary lines instead of being drawn in
Holding on to my real
Still a mystery, my mystery
AJB © 2003