Had it been a gift.
It would have been for the present.
Yet, so much littered the path.
Like an upholstered couch left in the rain.
A little something for what ails.
But the Gift-er lacks charity…
Thus, a custom design pails.
Living like a prodigy mapping out days of solace.
Planning perks from a, lost, no longer enchanted, forest.
In the thicket of flaws.
A present would seem misleading.
In the deep, wood, depth, of despair.
Like those who have gone before.
Little time for haste.
White noise everywhere.
A traveling companion for despair.
What of the place that heaven indicates?
For those who hesitate.
thanking its visitors for listening.
Fabled messages on hold.
Sounds of lines going dead.
When the morn writes home.
Should it be written back?
After all, what is in a name?
What of the stray thread?
We find on the floor.
As one is spotted.
until the end.
Unless their need necessitates someone to defend.
Complacency placid with the faceless poor.
Prior to the morn that writes no more.
No assurance, with an azure sky.
in cobalt when blown in.
A contrasting hue.
My souls conflict only slightly subdued.
All my changes still ahead of an unsteady mind.
Neither a twitch.
a nervous tic,
mine to refine.
Hopefully nothing but an admonishing sign.
Protected society of timbered blunders.
In the woods designed to comfort.
Not in the least,
an easy role to play.
The earthy meandering fool.
Vicarious living outside the rules.
But somehow, fitting just right.
A game of chance with this thing called, life.
Could never have imagined where this shaggy road would lead.
Where would our little self-centered world…be without the unique grief
Lonely pines, so precious when well-adjusted.
nothing but mere specks in someone else’s air…when parted.
we are all maiden voyagers…sight’s unseen.
Not a one of us asking for…what has been given…
in the dirtiest of snow-white dreams.