I write these words to you because I have nothing to do.
But think of you.
I try not to make sense, sense is past tense.
Whatever that may mean, things are not as they seem.
We live in a dream.
These words mean nothing, but still I sing.
I leave you on that note, something new I wrote.
Leaves fall in the fall, but that’s not all.
Not at all.
They return in spring.
What joy they bring.
Doing their thing.
So I sing.
12th September, 2016