Would it be here, of all places, that my precluded kinship find a higher meaning? And if so, then what is it at all that some sort of recompense be made for the multiplicity of my failures?
I would not be found by lamplight, like some curious drachma: warm and celebrated.
Only acknowledged, set back into the mix of various things that are within your pocket. Some day recalled, maybe, but for what I have earned you.
Never for my presence,
So I should leave now and stare into a thousand bur oaks that line such a poorly December road and notice only my reflection. Though, if I am more bent than even the lowliest branch, where would this lead?