A Human Complex

I hate how time passes; the world celebrates another year spent for nothing.
Voices deepen, now they can yell at the cashier and be taken half seriously.
People quiet down, fearful of the world, losing ignorance, forgetting who they are.

Time might not actually exist, but I know what does:

The downtrodden leaves narrating
a walk with the dog in the clean October air.

The naked branches dancing
with less sound, they’ve given up instruments, set them on the ground for you to play.

Being stuck inside cleaning the bathroom while all your friends
are playing out in the new snow because your mom said so.

Running barefoot to encourage spring, toes freezing white, but you’re laughing anyway because friends are here.

What else exists? Old people stuck in a chair, understanding that perpetual happiness is a joyous myth, a song of the ignorant. They look on, remembering
these blurry visions of a life they once loved.