We all serve our purpose, head for a direction.
Holding on for some sort of protection.
Yet not all of us strive for connection.
Merely just a simple conversation.

"Never lift the pen from your page".
We can't even have a fitted wage.
And as I let go of my unfitted rage,
Calmly sipping my tea made of sage,

The warmth of the evening,
Dear ones at our sides,
Speaking to our loved ones,
To miss the ones we loved once-

Now our summer has grown cold.
Our dearest memories are becoming old.
Nothing more to be told.
Never step into the mold.