the space
risked
in this
will to
continue
existing
can be
whiteknuckle fist ebb,
instead of
(or because of)
comfy square house
called home
that we all had
once
known
about.
dear you,
down your dram of
petals withered -
sit on your bench
and watch the clouds brood -
let your twenties be
a complete blur,
then,
score
a line
inside
the silence,
and jot
down
mind
on the margins
of all there is
which cannot
be said,
only
felt.
- mdm