I'm relishing more and more the obscurity of this. There has grown an immense feeling of safety and comfort in the fact that no one reads this. If someone even did, they would not know me. They would know nothing about me except for the words contained herein. There would be no context, no knowledge of my experience, no basis from whence I come. Just. These. Words.

Depth

It's the loneliness that really does it
The depth of it, the size, the persistence
As if a boat has capsized and you're falling
Down into an ocean bottomless and
Claustrophobic all at once. Cold. Infinite.
Squeezing the very life as the expanse
Opens wider and wider

Stand

Standing as ghostly sentinels rising
Through a spring mist, itself spectral
Oblivious to the last vestiges of winter
Uncaring of the greenery making it's
Attempt to rise verdant through snow
Grey-white and straight as arrows
The Beeches carry on and on