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Description
It's funny how much some things can change in a year.
Two, more than that even.
Or such little time as well.
Maybe a month.
Week.
Days.
Hours.
Minutes.
Seconds.

A single breath.
A twitch, disregarding information.
A blink can tell a story.
A flash of sliver and you know something's wrong.
A swish of the hair and something's gone.
Someone's gone and they aren't going to return any time soon.
What did you do?
Nothing.

In a small time, things can change.
In minutes, people can leave and come into this place.
Born, indefinately.
Die, indiscriminatly.
People can learn to love,
And scorn the world with hate.
Lives can be twisted, wrenched,
Thrown into the gutter.
Only to be picked up a moment later,
By sorry and forgiving tones and hands.

A week to say hello and goodbye,
Or nothing at all.
Stare at your feet
Or make use of the
Week that you have.

Months are slow,
And yet faster than you realise.
When was the last time you looked at a calendar?
Last month.
You forget the time,
And it slowly slips away.
Through your fingers,
And down the drain.

One year.
Do you remember where you were,
One year ago?
Maybe not this moment,
And certainly not the second.
But, this day.
Or maybe,
This season.
Your feelings,
Dreams.
Aspirations.
Hopes.
Failures.
Successes?

Two years ago, the memories began to..
Blur.
They are sidestepped.
Replaced.
But I need to remember them,
So they are my glue.

If I had one day to live,
24 hours, and 60 seconds left.
With no chance of evading my fate.
And no cure to whatever is causing it.
I'd begin this chain.
Start the chain of events.

Of my final act,
I'll require a few things.
Assitance from a few people,
And a motor contraption.
Many dozens bunches of bananas,
Though I do revoke the texture of them.
Quarts of vanilla extract.
Tubs of butter.
And handfuls of bitter baker's chocolate.

I guess this plan doesn't make much sense.
I know, trust me though.
I've thought it out a couple of times.
I can't help but keep coming back to it.
The plan to gather everyone I know.
Or, maybe just my friends.
I haven't decided quite yet.

They'd all gather around at my abode,
And with a big surprise they'd heard from me.
They wouldn't know,
It was my final curtain call.
I'd welcome them with open arms,
And invite them to stay the night.

We'd stay up as long as possible.
After all,
Someone once said,
"I can sleep when I'm dead."
Someone would undoubtedly notice,
During the evening,
That something was wrong.
I mean, my friends aren't idiots.
I don't keep company with those sort.

"There's nothing wrong,"
I would say cheerfully.
They would know it's a lie.
But ehy would pretend to nod,
Not bring it up again,
And continue to talk through the night.
When they finally begin to drift to slumber,
And stop chatting,
That's when it'll start.

It'll start the domino effect.
During the night,
I'd have gotten up,
Unable to sleep.
And begun baking.
Mixing, stirring, preheating.

The aroma,
It would have scent my friends warm dreams.
Making them feel safe, warm and happy even.
The thick smell finally waking them up,
Drawing them downstairs,
Until they came to my kitchen.
Around me would be piles,
Mountains of banana bread.

They wouldn't all be the same.
Somewhere in the night I suspect,
I would have given up on the recipe.
Some have pumpkin spice,
And others have food colouring.
With some, they have labels for a specific person.
Made with thoughts and love,
Just for them and no one else.
As if to say,
"If you were a bread,
This is how you would taste to me."

I would lay asleep in a corner,
Curled up with my feet.
Maybe they would try and wake me,
Or let me sleep.
Logic and history,
If they could remember,
Would prove I'm a light sleeper.
Stampedes of feet down the creaky stairs,
Should have woken me.
Shouting and feverent whispers,
And loud car sirens.

It would have woken me if I was asleep.
And the reading aloud,
Of the note that was left of the stove,
Should have been that final straw.
My friends never were quiet ones.
Always running about,
Like chickens with their heads cut off.
Quite annoying if you don't know 'em,
Like I used to.

Now back to my final curtain call,
The bow before the end.
The audience began to piece the puzzle together,
Like in the most complicated monolouge,
In the most beautiful and twisted piece.
But the lone actor had already left the stage.
The audience's claps and cat calls,
Could not bring them back.

The note which the actor left,
As you might have suspected,
Was a note of farewell.
It deemed all the banana bread to the guests,
And her goods to be divied at their own will.
She explained that it could not be stopped,
And not to cry over her too long.
Her friends would be glad to know,
That she would be alright.
No matter what happened,
She would try and wait for them.

The guests weren't happy,
Well, I would hope they weren't.
They almost didn't read,
The small little piece at the bottom,
That was in such tiny print that,
It was almost like,
An afterthought,
To everything else around them.
It said,
"To all my friends,
It would be best if they forget and smiled,
Then remember and be sad."

Description
It's funny how much some things can change in a year.
Two, more than that even.
Or such little time as well.
Maybe a month.
Week.
Days.
Hours.
Minutes.
Seconds.

A single breath.
A twitch, disregarding information.
A blink can tell a story.
A flash of sliver and you know something's wrong.
A swish of the hair and something's gone.
Someone's gone and they aren't going to return any time soon.
What did you do?
Nothing.

In a small time, things can change.
In minutes, people can leave and come into this place.
Born, indefinately.
Die, indiscriminatly.
People can learn to love,
And scorn the world with hate.
Lives can be twisted, wrenched,
Thrown into the gutter.
Only to be picked up a moment later,
By sorry and forgiving tones and hands.

A week to say hello and goodbye,
Or nothing at all.
Stare at your feet
Or make use of the
Week that you have.

Months are slow,
And yet faster than you realise.
When was the last time you looked at a calendar?
Last month.
You forget the time,
And it slowly slips away.
Through your fingers,
And down the drain.

One year.
Do you remember where you were,
One year ago?
Maybe not this moment,
And certainly not the second.
But, this day.
Or maybe,
This season.
Your feelings,
Dreams.
Aspirations.
Hopes.
Failures.
Successes?

Two years ago, the memories began to..
Blur.
They are sidestepped.
Replaced.
But I need to remember them,
So they are my glue.

If I had one day to live,
24 hours, and 60 seconds left.
With no chance of evading my fate.
And no cure to whatever is causing it.
I'd begin this chain.
Start the chain of events.

Of my final act,
I'll require a few things.
Assitance from a few people,
And a motor contraption.
Many dozens bunches of bananas,
Though I do revoke the texture of them.
Quarts of vanilla extract.
Tubs of butter.
And handfuls of bitter baker's chocolate.

I guess this plan doesn't make much sense.
I know, trust me though.
I've thought it out a couple of times.
I can't help but keep coming back to it.
The plan to gather everyone I know.
Or, maybe just my friends.
I haven't decided quite yet.

They'd all gather around at my abode,
And with a big surprise they'd heard from me.
They wouldn't know,
It was my final curtain call.
I'd welcome them with open arms,
And invite them to stay the night.

We'd stay up as long as possible.
After all,
Someone once said,
"I can sleep when I'm dead."
Someone would undoubtedly notice,
During the evening,
That something was wrong.
I mean, my friends aren't idiots.
I don't keep company with those sort.

"There's nothing wrong,"
I would say cheerfully.
They would know it's a lie.
But ehy would pretend to nod,
Not bring it up again,
And continue to talk through the night.
When they finally begin to drift to slumber,
And stop chatting,
That's when it'll start.

It'll start the domino effect.
During the night,
I'd have gotten up,
Unable to sleep.
And begun baking.
Mixing, stirring, preheating.

The aroma,
It would have scent my friends warm dreams.
Making them feel safe, warm and happy even.
The thick smell finally waking them up,
Drawing them downstairs,
Until they came to my kitchen.
Around me would be piles,
Mountains of banana bread.

They wouldn't all be the same.
Somewhere in the night I suspect,
I would have given up on the recipe.
Some have pumpkin spice,
And others have food colouring.
With some, they have labels for a specific person.
Made with thoughts and love,
Just for them and no one else.
As if to say,
"If you were a bread,
This is how you would taste to me."

I would lay asleep in a corner,
Curled up with my feet.
Maybe they would try and wake me,
Or let me sleep.
Logic and history,
If they could remember,
Would prove I'm a light sleeper.
Stampedes of feet down the creaky stairs,
Should have woken me.
Shouting and feverent whispers,
And loud car sirens.

It would have woken me if I was asleep.
And the reading aloud,
Of the note that was left of the stove,
Should have been that final straw.
My friends never were quiet ones.
Always running about,
Like chickens with their heads cut off.
Quite annoying if you don't know 'em,
Like I used to.

Now back to my final curtain call,
The bow before the end.
The audience began to piece the puzzle together,
Like in the most complicated monolouge,
In the most beautiful and twisted piece.
But the lone actor had already left the stage.
The audience's claps and cat calls,
Could not bring them back.

The note which the actor left,
As you might have suspected,
Was a note of farewell.
It deemed all the banana bread to the guests,
And her goods to be divied at their own will.
She explained that it could not be stopped,
And not to cry over her too long.
Her friends would be glad to know,
That she would be alright.
No matter what happened,
She would try and wait for them.

The guests weren't happy,
Well, I would hope they weren't.
They almost didn't read,
The small little piece at the bottom,
That was in such tiny print that,
It was almost like,
An afterthought,
To everything else around them.
It said,
"To all my friends,
It would be best if they forget and smiled,
Then remember and be sad."