’twas in the winter of pretense,
upon the path of mask and mien:
he struggled then to coalesce
the many things he’d felt and seen –
the far away seemed present then;
the distant life seemed clear —
but all he was, a sham facade
behind a white veneer.
the stairway: slippery and cold –
the trees were still and barely clad –
he struggled then to climb the hill
that was the only task he had –
the far away seemed everywhere,
and distant hope felt small —
but he was just a semblance of
a man – if man at all.
but i cannot now hector him
for all his many failings:
for every life that is on track
can fast come off the railings
the only truth i know in this,
is that life has its seasons:
but as to why we try and fail –
there are too many reasons
to list out here. suffice to say
the heart goes missing every day
into a life that’s not a dream,
and semblances — far less than
what they seem
