she stands there wearing strange socks
speedy recovery from a frivolous illness
looking at the surroundings
I almost have an apocalyptic vision
the inklings of that echoes in my literary works
gnarled roots do not go with healthy poppies
such a weird thought,
a passing fancy of desiring thorns.
with an audible sigh,
I dread her entry into the teens
thirteen going on thirty
I go blue in the face thinking.
"she standing in the midst of chaos-
such an apt epilogue for the goings in my mind"