’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

Author: Sibelius Russell

Sibelius Russell (a/k/a/ Owen "Beleaguered" Servant) lives a life of whimsical servitude -- whatever that means.

Leave a Reply if you want. It's your life.

Please log in using one of these methods to post your comment: Logo

You are commenting using your account. Log Out /  Change )

Google photo

You are commenting using your Google account. Log Out /  Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out /  Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out /  Change )

Connecting to %s

This site uses Akismet to reduce spam. Learn how your comment data is processed.