My Richest Year

The year passed quickly with the sweet smell of tender,
Your voice sounds like money,
And your big house made me jealous of all the things I didn't have,
I even cried once or twice that I couldnt have you,
I seem to remember,

And how the leaves changed and so did we,
As you became used to hearing my voice,
And I yours,
There was that almighty oak-smoked-sepia-tanned feeling that
Told me this would stay in my memory,

For a while,
But the trips to the bridge and by your home were not in vain,
As I steamed from the lungs into the air and all was still,
Wrapped up in thoughts that maybe I would too get there,
To the world you live in caressed by the soft hum of carefree,

But this is not for ever,
We only have so long to grasp our fortunes in this blip of a life,
Where music, love and experience are the upholders of happiness,
And last year, in my richest year I pondered my fate,
And concluded, with the grass teasing my neck as I lay:

I think I can make it here.