faded

the shell of myself
displaying most wonderful colors
left in a rocking chair
by the window
with the calm of the ocean
at my grandmother's house
little birds and owls
all carved from drift wood
tickings of old clocks
little feelings
strange thinkings
gone, by gone, left
in the birches outside the door
where the grass is tuned blue
by the light of the late moon
stilling; so still
so quiet and never fleeting
it stays yet I'm leaving
what remains is deceiving.