wolves of the lone are never happy in a home,

a sorry soul

and we are draped in the sentiment of a seasonal flower,

flowing frailty in bloom..

pressed amidst the timelessness of history books for a fleeting sense of nostalgia'

whirlwind of wonders and woes

o lilac, a pressed petal memory.. a plastic flowered heart

when your heart needs a forest,

A wandering willow endures the soft strength of the wind

but the wind is natural and inevitable.

A wandering man walks sternly into the wind and his soul parts ways with him,
two shadow lengths behind,

how far into the wind can a wandering soul walk before it can never be whole,

all time considers consideration

Saint Augustine sings the seventh

"I am not afraid of anything anymore,
it's all concrete - flesh and flowers"