sweet corral
in savage fields
you were to me
salvaged visions
hushed syllables
relayed in gasps
now stilled
and I sang to
this favoured space
place all ages stretch
dance to meadow’s song
but havens don’t last
for spent shepherds
seek sleep too
I face myself
as dark clouds
I saw fomenting
omens of looming
deepening chill told
of friendship's succor
earmarked to go
confronted by
naked and scarred
discarded outcasts
dirges of limbs
parts broken
by storms'
scythes
you stood
beside me
sturdy strong
then winds ceased
and bland tones
transmitted
often
no sunny sky friend
you are but in storms
you see the beaten
traveler's plea
as rains
strip
breath
Sometimes we happen to come by someone we grow to deeply love as a precious friend, however they may well not see things quite that way, as they could be the perennial helper of those battling the stormy night, and when too much of the everyday mundane increases and swamps the scene, they can unexpectedly withdraw, needing space to chill and just be, and you feel such regret, remorse, shame even, that you didn't realize you were becoming a bad smell, a suffocating presence and you need to draw back or lose the contact, connection forever.