There is a friend I never think I've left,
walking down those empty alleys, of my mind.
And then I run into those stealthy thoughts I would regret.
Living off my fear of pressure, divine.

Yet is divinity a justful word?
For such a rogue?
Weaving in and out of dreams,
the snow in the wind blows,
the rose and its petals fall into
the breeze of the sighing trees,
and the branches bend to kiss away their woes.

And this friend of mine would walk the trees,
and every thing it sees is the object of its
smoothly gliding gate.
With its darkened dreary almost-dawning
yawning as a young man over-fawning
over something wishfullysleeping as though to wait.

Over rivers and bright flowers
although still dour in their color due to
my friend, a passing plucker of their laughter.
Hushing petalled lips with fingertips
of natural bliss writ red and blue, what to think of this?
My friend yet seems to laugh even after.

So I deign to let him follow ever sorrowful,
yet also happy in his long and splaying presence
in his residence of an ever-blackened path.
A' following me about the world, leaving never
to be forever my sole companion, ever anon
never feeling what a man could call his
ever-predictable fall
the plague we may refer to as lone wrath.