| Evening in the garden
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| Surrounded by fireflies
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| We’d only just moved in
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| I spent my time alone there reading
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| and planted one thing a day
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| While shoveling the yard
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| my spade hit a metal box
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| And in it was a diary
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| The cover old and frayed
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| It said «I don’t know how much time I have
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| but I guess we never really do
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| I thought that I would be terrified
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| but it’s worse to watch them watch me
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| Sometimes I wish our lives were simpler
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| that we never had to stretch the food
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| That people here would treat my brother well
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| and that he would know he’s good»
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| I laid out all those pages
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| and in my study typed them up
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| It was tough to say how old they were
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| I guess… years at least
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| The boy who wrote these words
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| Was an odd and complicated mind
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| But wisdom’s often heavier
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| When found before its time
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| He said «We all get stuck in circles
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| but nothing moves in perfect lines
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| Connections underly the things we see
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| But to nuances we’re blind
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| And I am never singular
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| I was born a pair to walk alone
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| My mirror shows the things im not
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| But it helps me feel at home» |