She treads on somber thru,
my head.
Reliving the litigation of a past,
almost dead.
Candid banter stark,
in review.
She turns as a two toned
leaf anew.
Could still this be a fortnight,
of forgotten time.
Or return to the head drunk,
on a symposium of angels and wine.
A tranquil symphony of peace calls to the winds,
songs through the tree’s.
And still there lingers,
a Nordic battle cry upon every gentle breeze.
She stoops to conquer an underlying heart,
stopping only to retrieve each and every shattered part.
What winds the winding road,
to the soul of unhappiness?
In direction this restitute,
is what she’ll always miss.