It was a fear of passion and inevitably endearment because of the way the willows shook and the facial hair that took

a toll on youth

It's the slightest bit rigid and taxing on the syntax but when a sprinter doesn't sprint his form grows lax

So when a writer doesn't write or a poet doesn't plead
cause becomes riddled
and questionably questionable

That tinkling of the spine and those goosebumps formed on arms seems to get a rise every time eyes
look past upon past while these fingers know best

that complexion upon completion is just a facade

just another excuse to make an excuse

It was a cusp of time once
filled with a slight of boredom
and an inkling of depression
with a touch of naivety

And having meandered back to the whims of the child

I owe it to myself.