In the broken ages we thrive with words edgier than swords, over the bay window we hear seagulls taunting the waves for another storm.

Pavement taking over the woods
Treasuring breathable conversations between souls.
Then without even a slight sigh
the babbling brooks stops in their tracks leaving ****** steps of regret and nightmares of dinner dates.
We’ve been waiting and waiting for the rain, like a sigh of relief instead of wishful bliss

Whenever people come over, the silver is never shiny enough,
the windows not clean, chairs creaky, dust in corners and you’re never fully there.

How to please the people of yesterday, tomorrow or today.
To invite them into your own home, that may not be a castle or even a cozy cabin.

How to please, appeal to the upper crowd or even the town people.
The ones with similar shoes as you.
What to expect rather than regret, the crippling, snarling inner voice saying
“time for bed little you, tomorrow may be your last day of tjoho”