seeing an old pitcher,
has made me realize,
that what now lies,
between me and my dream,
is an overwhelming scene,
that plays in my mind,
like a song stuck on repeat,
making me feel obsolete,
as the winds of time,
blow away my fragile
mind, and the leftover
dust that remains,
forms a new life,
made of my thoughts,
and I translate them,
from my mind into,
the pen, and from the pen,
onto the sheet of paper,
then like water they vaporise,
into a cloud, that rains,
my thoughts for your eyes,
to see, like a film you watch.
or a book that you read,
that is never to clear,
but the plot is sometimes,
understood, but never,
makes sense, but only,
to the author of the script.
and those who read,
the writings he writes,
interprets them different,
like the author intends!
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