I succumb to ends of days
To ends of nights
Where the wind lays low
Where the bough bends, not breaks
I relinquish ill-fitting garments
That sinch my waist and
Smother me with stiff, forgotten lamb’s wool
Where denim, devoid of elasticity binds
I witness the belief of disbelief where
A fool’s handshake, his
Tight sweaty grasp
Squeezing my cold, limp
Apathetic hand
I suffer at the dire reach of poverty
The stricken, the voiceless
The heartache of lowly demise
In a state where trees and stars serve as meager shelters
It is the certainty of tenderness I crave
Blowing darkness to the foreboding wind
That soothes a blistered soul
I welcome togetherness
That fills the inherent void we mask
Sufficing nothing
Embracing all
I rejoice in existence
Abundance that fills all spaces
Far reaching and plenty