Where do the words go that did not stay?
Where do the looks that one day departed go?
Do they float eternally, like prisoners of a gale?
Or do they crouch, between the cracks, looking for heat?
Do they roll over the crystals, like raindrops they want to pass?
Are they never something again?
Do they leave?
And where are they going?
where are you going?
What will my old shoes be made of?
Where did they go to give so many leaves of a tree?
Where are the anguish, that from your eyes leaped for me?
Where did my dirty April blood words go?
Where do these bodies go right now, that I can not stop illuminating?
Are they never something again?
Do they leave?
And where are they going?
where are you going?
Where does the common go, the everyday?
The barefoot at the door, the helping hand?
Where does the surprise go, almost daily at dusk?
Where does the tablecloth go, yesterday's coffee?
Where do the small terrible charms of the home go?
Are they never something again?
Do they leave?
And where are they going?
where are you going?
Only among all we can make this a better place :)