Cycling forth recycling hence.
Conversational relief with the inanimate.
Spending cents to dull my sense.
Of love.
Of loss.
Of bliss.
Of this.
Bitter slice of life beyond.
Left behind in the squeeze of thought.
Dripping down the ancient pipe.
What I have found not always sought.
To feel.
To seal.
Too lone.
To roam.
Through the broken barometers needle.
As the whiskers we had got trimmed.
All the while the foliage glistened.
Reflecting sunlight on a whim.
