Lurking in the arms of the loneliness, all I have.
Accepting I’m old than I am or shall be, am into the late twenties.
Rejecting the thought you will again come back, like in movies or books.
Finding the signs that’re leading to the memories, all I’ve now, in this spring eve.
Scaring of the page remaining blank pushing me (and), thus, warning me against lunacy.
Musing, trying, though, with the moment, with the time, thoughts and words all I’ve.
Rambling, thus, to ease off the tantrums of move on, am in hurry and not.
Scribbling, thus, to make a trait, against my will.
Daily Prompt: Symptom (Sign, Warning, Trait)