Devastation is a broken umbrella
That won’t close on a sunny day.
A gift to me from a man last year,
Who thought it time to pass on its shade.
For some, this item is the accepted cost of inspiration,
Or the price of living for even a day.
For some, it’s a pain that moves in silence,
Hits like a bus, and goes on its way.
I peak through the windows of Hope,
I stand at the door,
Knocking not twice but three times,
Best to be sure.
Hope beckons me to come into its comfort,
And warm my hands by its fire,
But the boundaries of my canopy keep me
Limited… outside… bemired.