Rejection message drains my spirit level.
The bubble is only centered on the warm-
coloured and well-lit wall of a holiday. Or
during a rare weekend laugh with a friend.
This high-stress therapy is just temporary.
Surrounded by scraps of nostalgia and
paragraphs of a suicide note addressed
to the neglectful souls who left a wounded
badger to survive on his own in the wood.
That underground home has always been
burrowed close to the two apple trees that
grew enough to provide fruit and shelter
despite their roots suffering from rot and
the farmer concentrating on the hen house.
Like a fox raised in captivity, there's a high
mortality rate for those trying to escape the
life drawn on an oracle deck of hospital beds.
Making the most of temporary moments
is the only control we have. But taking a
gamble on a clear country road could turn
this fleece to ash. Until the next rat trap.