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.