It went up and down; the road to me, appeared like a wave. I see people go about and I watch, like a tombstone at a grave. Sometimes I wish there was an epitaph engraved, on my forehead so people can read; what I was and what I could never be.
The wind strokes my hair like my mother would; I hear it calling my name like my father should. These whispers, my hallucinations and the birds that fly above have something in common. It’s that they have nothing in common. People keep passing. So does time. So shall I.