Our Dandelions

What's this? My mind deceives me.

I dance with my thoughts, cling to them tightly,

Then push them away.

What's this, but a distant memory,

Daring to creep back,

Haunting me.

Our dandelions grow,

They spread like a plague.

But what's this?

December,

And they have withered away;

My only souvenir.

So proud are we,

Members of this generation.

Doing anything to protect

This facade that they all see.

But what's this? Could it be

That I want you to notice

My not-so-subtleties?

It is so, but it seems

You don't see what I see.

It appears that the tables have turned.

What's this? The once strong and independent,

Becomes the one who is unsure.

I suppose this is what I deserve.