I wobble against the pale oak, listening
intently to the distant skips of our rocket eyed children
bouncing against concrete waves.
What horror often awaits us
between such mourning moments.
An invitation to you,
lost under tired glass. To only show,
but never see,
What twisted little wands of remorse,
just what heights can be reached here?
I could go on forever, like a nail hammered
into an old tree.
The bark slowly growing around it,
until like a splinter
it rests permanently inside
a constant reminder
of those dull faced days.