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.
There is no accountability for sorrow.
No, gone today, here tomorrow.
An infinite tug of war…not including, just me and you.
Perhaps, a spider and her web.
Nature’s delicate balancing act.
Eight leg’s looming.
Without a care.
Peacefully relinquishing a woeful tale made of satin.
Creatures of habit…tracing trails, always, again and again.
What should we make of pleasures so frail?
Maybe, bittersweet sorrow?
The occasion’s vice we prefer not to borrow.
Imprisoned, voluntary victims, by the side of the house.
Chained to what used to be.
Indignation’s nation…almost impossible to predict, possibly hard to see.
How youthful, one foot in front of the other.
How gallantly innocent, these long hauls without a stall.
Rounds of cheer,
There in yesterday…
How frivolous, indeed, the forest that I borrow.
What a tryst, these walks, unlimited.
Me, and, my bohemian ways, dearly wed.
So, in someways, a line is cast.
Shallow waters running fast.
To which, the obvious,
an eternal misstep from the past.
Get it back.
Got to get it back.
Not in trying, do I lack.