The Writers' Circle

The streetlights flicker off,
we are dancing our way home,
we've stopped making plans,
they will be forgotten.

The scenes are changing, 
our lives are rearranging,
and we throw ourselves onto our knees and pray.
We don't know to who or what
but we hope they're listening.

The ghost of our fears
haunt the road less travelled.
Raindrops drip off of the branches 
of the willow tree, like tears.

There's nothing special about you.
You were invincible when you were younger,
but the cloak has worn off,
now you are only human.

The first time I climbed a tree,
I had fallen,
but a rope had entangled itself around my neck,
saving me.

I have not lived,
I have not lived.