Letters aligned are fragments. Woven words are wasted.
The chances and choices, the phrases and voices,
All twist and turn along a path on the side of a road.
With thoughts unfettered and the reflective self as its guide
Desperate answers are sought. Only more and more questions loom.
Futile and furious exploration gives no reward. Grants no solace.
Vacant comfort is all that’s reflected in these hidden, hollow browns
Gifted with guarded misdirection. The wasted ways and endless wants
Are worn with regret and sadly weave their way into the fabric of time.