As we sleep,

We grow old,

And like our dreams,

We are fleeting.

Nothing new, for me and you,

For it began so long ago,

And even then,

We already knew,

If spring feels like summer,

It must mean,

That some flowers just never bloom.

Yet we saw them wither,

In autumn,

When the morning fog was looming,

And the days blurred into gloam and gloom.

We got tired, can you remember?

We watched the night sky, counting all our stars,

Then the hoarfrost dressed itself,

Slowly crept up the wooden shelves,

Reaching into our abandoned hearth.

Inevitably, 

Sleep embraced us,

We grew old,

And like our dreams,

We were fleeting.

             08/2024