Poles and Pillars

Maybe running around pillars and poles of questions
And letting the wind brush through hair..
Maybe sitting on a bench on the top of quiet hill
And reading old books and letters..
Maybe the pictures that seemed funny and beautiful
And humble voyeurism of the soul..
Maybe dreaming like a child tucked in cozily
And making paper dolls at night..
Maybe that one true love which was lost
And is still missed repeatedly..
Maybe a lucky companion made for life
And very quietly being scared of what will be..
Maybe the herculean dreams for which all is planned
And tender affections comforting cold nights..
Maybe those miles of words and arts
And escaping to simplest places..
Maybe the profane is the love of life
And for it all else taken for granted..
Maybe the grandeur is ultimately an illusion
And struggling endlessly for its attainment..
Maybe there are many singing better songs
And still holding on to failure as a comfort..
Maybe getting consumed is peaceful
And amongst chaos there is happiness..
Maybe too many stories were told
And nascent minds believed all..
Maybe it never was about contentment
And loneliness is more comforting..


Maybe I asked you too much,
And you thought answers weren't required.