I have seen sorrow being dragged upon the forest bed.
Sorrow and Grief…her best friend.
I drag them barefoot…scrapping fractious feet upon disruptive, chaotic floor.
Both women, put upon by the light snow and distant screams.
With fist in a ball and charity along my lines of pine.
Sorrow comes as a matter of recourse.
And, grief…she grabs hold with a ragged limb.
She allows just enough for my carriage of thought to run…thin.
Sorrow and grief, my friends for now, remember every vacant vow
the terrain, coarse with a mortal’s soul.