Laughing pine hold no sentiment for the fallen leaves.
If devotion were a winter gust…what would be just for us.
If rambling had been my disdain…no echo in refrain.
Yet, stolen from frozen time,
to lose resentment allots to listening in the dark to discarded rain and threaded foot and her traffic.
Could one become more than what red berry in powdered snow…
be my memories…distant and low?
No matter the distance in a country mile…I am nothing more than faded ilk…
propaganda with a manufactured smile.