A distant cry
I hear,
near
the shadows of melting ice.
I feel the pain
of punctured gates
guarding the silo that once was the
custodian of the finest grain.
I gage the decay
of prudent walls
providing shelter to the west
of my ideas,
while unconsciousness and the rest
of me,
lay down at ease
between sweat and tears
that run at will.
Yet, I weave
a timid attitude over the cloth of my thoughts,
to tell it all
this dismal day;
with my own words
and no remorse
or false pretense.
