Windswept concerns pass me by,
taking my idealism for a spin.
The latest lumbering concern stays attentive to my every procrastination,
lest we be forgetting that we have weight tied to our ankles,
the ledges will remind us
by tossing us random objects to catch before they fall to the street below.
When do I get to make wishes that feel like grace?
Do they come wrapped differently
to the ones that are doomed to falter like klutzy ambition?
Can you tell the good ones from the ones that lead into brick walls?
I long for chocolate eyes that know secrets
but fear too much the speaking.
Afraid to be wrong,
or appear strange for this twin emotion.
Losing for lack of leaping.