It is winter here, and even the trees
Ponder over themselves
And their age rings.
How honest they are in comparison to us.

A clatter of silence, still
And empty
Leeches away through
My surreptitious mind.

Burnt words cling to me
Trying to lull me with every
Emotion they thought they harbored.
I stayed in there a while, cut off
From the real world. It's good
To live in your head a while, you know.
Another form of therapy
(Rather than an expensive trip
To a shrink
Who will unwrap my layers
To find some nonexistent cause
of worry)

I feel like excess baggage
(Or maybe unwanted
Luggage that no one might
Want to claim)

I am a sorry state of wistful wishing.