Flying solo amid the haunted thicket.

A travesty of my imperfections bad luck?

Getting the misguides…wrong.

For even a gimpy, imp, knows.

It takes two to belong.

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When I attempted to travel the mist with loneliness in my heart.

My shortcomings were longer than the sum of all their parts.

With gumption…tangled in corruption, stumbling toward inadequacy.

An angry overgrowth in the dented can to recovery.

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Distance ahead would mean retaining…

The poisoned ivy to my lonesome itch.

Only need produced a friend to wander down the damaged ditch.

In the landslide of pointing fingers at ‘letting go of holding on?’

Recovery was…

Recovery is…

‘It takes two to find the right side of wrong.’