I slowly walk towards you,
Following your footsteps,
Etched on pathways golden,
Petite, almost unnoticeable,
And follow your scent among all the unknowns,
For it takes a century of being,
To see what it is like to be a speck,
Amidst the dust that gathers on a runaway cloth,
I see you while darkness turns me upside down,
And inside out,
My fall and my rise,
My imagination almost running thin,
My ink that doesn’t spill,
They all ask one thing,
When would you be real?