once again the kettle whistles, once a loud demand, now only a dull complaint; which is all that fills this hollow space as a reminder—even the simplest things can turn bitter

gazing across the pasture I trees standing like military sentinels but they know nothing of the weight that grows heavier each minute

daily I watch a carousel of faces, round and round along with hearing the laughter of others yet deep within I hold nothing, and outwardly there is only borrowed not owned in my vast emptiness

What is the reward for remaining in this mortal coil?

after all we are just ghosts in a glass house wandering through rooms filled with mirrors and each reflection a lie that we’d like to believe or share as truth