The wind is picking up, all of the shingles lifting loose.
The tidal wave will crush, leaving a littered lot refused.
The birds and fish get caught within the psychic netting loops.
And after all the cost, I'm left alone. Sun's setting soon.
The shelter's torn and tossed. All of my fragiles tucked away.
My self locked in a box, down in the basement, cold and grey.
In hibernation, conotations tossed out in the fray.
I will scorn the frost and frozen fingers dreading fate.
In hibernation, all frustrations bled out into space.
I will mourn the lost and lonely lingered threads, and pray.