What worries were willing to wait even for winter to end..

Chances; like the warped withering of a stray's hope. Wrapped in the attentive ways of welcoming the weather that so generously windowed an arch through this apparent wasteland of filthy cleanliness. That of whispering to the awake would miserably find the proper manner to begin again from the waist up to the waist down, and then waste away the familiar clarity that we'd be asleep anyway. In a sleepy kind of wariness that isn't aware of a witness at all, but of a self-absorbed watching then disregarding.

I am bewildered by the things I wonder and the things that I know are the only things I know. Way down an alarming defiance of the natural being that it is I should be. But suffice to say that I've let this impossible be the probable forward for me to slowly sweep enough dust for my treasures.

This is wired. Wired like we're ready to untangle from a fatal togetherness that will burn us down a whist kind of screaming. And then we'll whisk away the airy empty that a wishful thought like us, and a desperate keep like us will inadvertently wilt away back to the haunting vibrance that I'd once thought would be the way out.