or is it –
just different roads?
every life
wears its own clothes

i still find it a safe space
even as age, built solid walls
my cardboard box
it is my own place

that has become too rough
it feels like a love
that has lost its loving touch
it feels like my leg is in plaster
but no one will give me a crutch

sometimes
my voice feels small
and yet, i need it
to walk tall

they wear their, ‘dragged up’ –
like some baggage of normal
their – life trauma
like beautiful fauna

we have to live next door
to the consequences –
of his life choices
the unregulated behaviour

i know what it means
when people have lost trust
when they will not feed you
and your confidence begins to rust

it is fashioned
like something so dogmatic
and over time,
i have lived to the idea of being pragmatic

in different ways
now they have both vacated
my future days