It was supposed to be safe
here in my towering castle made of
soft blankets and gentle caresses,
comforting words and wishes.
It was a foundation ancient and sturdy;
to question it would be to doubt the stability of the mountains.
/I was supposed to be clever./
It is silly to argue otherwise:
I didn't realize it until it was too late.
A forgotten door left open somewhere
or maybe it was an unlatched window.
A tiny fracture in the castle defenses,
and an unfortunate side-effect of the human condition.
The frost and dark nights have slowly crept inside,
brushing my heart and uncertain hands.
And I understand I am no longer safe here—
no more than if I was caught out in the wintry wilds.
/I was supposed to be clever./
YOU ARE READING
seasons of my heart
PoetryLove: infinitely personal and consistently imperfect. Life: like the seasons, continues to move on; never stopping and always changing. Hope: the persistent light in the dark.
