You only know
suspected intentions,
pray tell
ingrained conventions.

Alas
how to opine
on this sweetest heart of mine
without a single breath of soul
ne’er to discern,
nor layers of brokenness
rebuilt to whole?

Good morning
or good night
so long,
wasted lyric of an unsung song,
a melody exists forlorn
betwixt ears and eyes
like some evasive dream’s goodbyes.

Directionless
we drift at sea
amongst the debris of destiny,
this painting is a dot,
a knotty day
tis was our lot.

Linda Joy Walder