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.