I'm not too inclined to write.
Because my roots lie deep in soil
unmended
and highly offended by such
apathetic precipitation. Approximating that
any hint of hope
was barren.

So a love life-
one, call her wife.
She austerely abided by permanency
despite omnipresent strife.
There was simply no life.
Nothing.
Not an attempt to stick it out
past
imaginary doubt.
All when you were
all my life was about?

Days of
ferris wheels
and
tickled squeals
bring on such sweet strength.
But I can't say anything
blunted the light
more than your shadow.

I digress.

It's always been a battle
My blind past,
they say,
shows only decay.

If green is still visible,
on a day chemically dismal
remember
that still
I'm not inclined to write.