… there’s a ripe frost,

a biting cold chill inside,

this nest we’ve chosen…

Mostly it’s the inability to dominate,

An unwilling world only curious of you,

Not enough to sail on nor build on,

Wounded by the past and full of hate,

Obtuse and rugged and hidden from view,

Mangled and bruised and strong,

Aloof to failings, failing to compensate,

Nedging away as clue,

Cooing and wiggling, then straight,

How conscious really, of each new,

Is the last version?

Let alone to dream of its own,

Dreaming is but stolen candy…