He called in for a shower after being alone on the streets for a week.

Is that time enough
to get ***** for a shower
   as a man nearly twenty-six
in years.
She could turn him away
like her father’s sister
might have and did.
From time to time.

It all depended on how many times in a week,
month, or year
he would show up without a call.
Without knowing he still existed.

Somehow, his presence and
absence
were a mixed blessing.
His presence was like a merry-go-round
that goes against the earth’s pull.
Like a brazen thorn
stuck into your shoe.
Unpredictable.
Vacuum-like.
******* all the ***** things in.
Taking everything in its sight
and power and making
everything contort
to his reality.
Where he and only he resided.
Would she open the door for him?

What she does know
is that she might risk speaking
in a bright happy voice
of a mother
so gladsome to see her son.
Welcoming him in.
Rather than turning him away
because of his inconvenience.
Grief is inconvenient.
That is one thing she knows.

a dusky walk
through the middle
of the park
clear of
the shadows
of branch
and leaf
at its edges
the only light
stretched out
but struggling
from distant
lamp posts
or the
yet more distant
halo of moon
breaching cloud
it is enough
to plot
a route by
but not
with confidence

a leather flapping
overhead
tells tale
of bats
in their erratic
yet assured flight
abhorred
by many
perhaps for
that very reason;
unpredictable
unflinching
not flying
the expected path

Day by day the rules has changed..
When the words false it's mean nothing..
The mission always same..
But the ways are different..

This is not mission impossible..
This is mission unpredictable..

How could the mission changes the rules..
Everyone didn't understand..
The way we look are different..
We have our eyes to be understood..
We have glasses to fill it full..
We have our opinion..

The mission didn't change..
But our mind are changes..

Let happens will be happened..
With all the happiness in the past..
With all the sorrow in the present..
With all the kindness in the future..

We are didn't change..
Our minds take the control..
The way we look..
The way we see..
The way we think..
The way we feel..

Hope everything gonna be alright in the end..

It's a bitter dance with fate.
He twirls me and I reply by stepping on his toes,
because I can't dance to such a foreign beat.
And fate is whisking me away,
moves unreliable and messy,
barely better at dancing than I am.

This can't last forever.
Eventually, we'll grow tired
of the confusion and unpredictable moves
each other will make.
And we'll break away to take our own steps,
off the dance floor and towards the buffet
where we gorge ourselves on the future
we choose for us.
The things we know will be what we want.
Fate cannot control us here,
He cannot lead us away on a mystical journey
going off into the misty evening.
At least, not until we open our eyes and realize:

We always come back to the dancefloor.
and Fate comes in many forms.

Do you ever wish
On what peeves you most
To just dissipate?

I wish that I wasn’t so late
In learning when someone
Chooses to be filled with salt
And infectious contempt.

A warning system
Would be a nice addition
To this life of mine!