250224 Blue Horizon

Scattered on winding roads,Blued like ink, memory bleeds into handwritten letters,Staining my hands with blurred traces.

What’s called truth, perhaps,Is absurdity piling endlessly,Nearing thirty,Only then realizing a lifetime of strokes in the wrong order,Writing words that seem normal.

AlwaysDancing a tango, three steps wrong, one step right,Clutching ashes, blowing desperately,Thinking the embers still burn,Yet the firelight only flickers in reply.

I don’t know why I’m here,Hoping the world might hear,Over and over again,Singing a song that never reaches my ears.