Cold nights enclose memories of a hollow
wooden life striving to live. To love.
Yet on wet streets glimmering
the reflections of lonely streetlights,
and ebony clouds above,
a lid is placed on hope desiring for hope.
Lost in-between the buildings and searching for directions
to an office which steals life from the lifeless.
Short of encouraging bosses flout
to desecrate inner joy around self-esteem.
A direction is only a fallacy
of a path from which happiness belongs.
Look and grasp the love from which
no stretching of arms or closing of palms
brings the complete feeling within.
Being complete dwells within the soul of
self-doubt as the ridicule of ignorant
individuals gives depth to the distant inner necessity.

 
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