The white painted barn
is shredded and weathered
by wind and rainwater.

The ground is
all mud and salt,
and I feel
as though
this is all
my fault.

So, I drop flowers
for metaphors,
see shadows
lurking on
the empty
meadow floor,
where a bed
of dead roses
fails to bloom
once more.

The prettiest clouds
have the
sharpest teeth
and I am certain
that there are
cumulous
stalking me.

So, I try to walk swiftly,
but I am soon stiffly
crawling across
dark landmarks,
where my paranoia
infuses me
with the certainty
of impending
death or
insanity.

Each inch gained
seems to cause
some gnawing pain,
but I try to push on.

Home is heaven’s doorstep
So close,
but so far away.

The anxiety
is forcing me
to slow
Until, I am
a frozen mess
facing a frigid death
with infinite regret
and no regress
to address
anything.