Sat before a cake, I ponder
What life has stored me yet:
Trains delayed;
A mortgage repaid;
Perhaps a holiday, or two.

Entrapped by colourful balloons,
But certainly not grounded,
I look forward,
Though seldom back.

I look forward,
In pleasure;
In fear;
Nonetheless in hope.

Hope that we all emerge
From behind closed doors,
Safe as the houses in which we have stayed;

Hope that there's a role for me
In a company,
In my society,
In our world;

Hope that love embraces me
And shows the way
To a better love,
A better life;

Hope...
That this cake actually
Tastes rather nice.

I should probably start on the cake.
It looks scrummy.

Ever the yonder,
ever the fonder.

Your grasp,
one day soon,
will entangle me in happiness.
I'll never wish to leave.

Yet the roads stretch;
the clocks stop;
the crowds vanish.

Four walls surround me,
And for you, one day,
one of them will fall.

Death is not pretty.
Death is not brave,
Death is not freedom
Or grace
Or clarity
Or glorious.
Death is lonely,
Undignified,  
And vastly disappointing.
I do not recommend you try it.

(Written from my best friend's viewpoint. I hope she gets better soon.)

In search of release,
Autumnal gusts escape me.
A sorrow shower.

Surrounded in a sea of shivering fear,
Floating and bobbing until I come near
The tight, warm grasp of a human hand;
The thunderous triumph of standing on land.

I’m weak at my knees as I mindlessly drift.
What would I do to make water shift?
I need to be seen and I need to be read;
I’m gonna be crumpled and torn into shreds.

Day upon day, my plight never ends --
Destinations are missed, time and again.
See, my dear friend, it’s never over:
I keep floating around, over and over.

Six faces surround me,
None of which speak.

Surrounded I sit,
A body cast in bubble wrap,
Sewn tightly with brown tape.

Carve a hole and pull me out.
I’ll be your prized possession
If you’ll have me on your shelf.