This holographic poem
Was written by the personated tree
That reminds me of you

For although I may lack the valour
To emancipate your battered heart
I'm hoping this far-flung poem
Not to be mistaken for amatory

But rather a gift
From the stairs
That take comfort in the echo
Of your whispered secrets

This inessential concoction
Of words has been formed
By the stand-still bench
Trapped in the memory of you

This incongruous composition
Of cluttered abstractions
Was conjured up by the
Missing skin on your wrists

I'm not great like the ancient Greeks.
My door is tattered, unoiled, and it creaks.
The glass coffee table now in pieces,
mirroring thousands of broken perspectives.
The clothes on the floor, reflecting the messy
internal view of my life.

But I can fix it, can't I?
I could oil the hinges of my door,
brand new like it was before.
I could buy a stronger table,
no longer dysfunctional
and unable.
As for my clothes, I'll just fold them back.
It's really not a daunting task.
Some parts are easy, some are pretty tricky
and repair takes time but go on
and fix your life.