The Little Things

As I smell the grass,
I think of the past.
Dreams start being hurled at me
as if it were some kind of philosophy

yet to be understood
but I wonder who could?
Nothing seems real.
Nothing is as it should feel.

I started to wonder
about the little things
that remain silently loud
in a quiet room.

How do you count
tears streaming down our faces?
Do you measure by the dozen
or wait until they fill the cup?

Do you wait until they transform
the taste of food
or the image of memory
or the atmosphere’s mood? 

Do you think about the pitter patters
of a stray cat as it passes by?
Do you listen for the howling of the wind
as you continue to fly?

Do you notice the dandelion’s
pretty seeds putting on a petal’s disguise
as they dance to the beat
of the breeze as they please?

As I notice every little eyelash
as it’s eye blinks.
I feel the nervousness
cloud their line of sight.

I feel every crack
in every bone of the halls of the people.
I feel every part echoe
silence into my soul.

The walls are made of glass,
hiding no secrets and telling lies of security.
They continue to twist the truth
into their own utopia.

What will they hide
when they show everything but what they need
or do they believe
that they can still hide?

The sky looks down and observes.
The teardrops from the clouds respond.
The thunder roars in agony.
The grass moans in despair.

Empathy swims in the air
as it pouts at its fake reflection.
It seeks to set fire to the ice
It seeks to put the world in fire

but they resist
as they continue to exist
with a fire extinguisher in hand
and their resolve as their shield.