She's in her room, he's roaming to and fro school
The lanes of trains and thoughts in their brains
Are leading in foggy gloom to a blowy bloom
Or vice versa, and such versus each other
She stretches in bed, feeling bad in her head
And grows more hollow with her pillow
Wrestling with the whispers of cutting her wrists
Strangled blank under the mellow blanket
All for what but a rest
And he's in the seat sensing something is incomplete
Contemplates whatever it is on his plate
Whether it's through with the fake aching mistakes
Glancing at the window's glass, yet not through
All for what but a break
Outside, there where nothing can hide
Frosty feathers frustrating birds refusing to abide
With little guide are supposed to take things in stride
Blimey, when the entirety is tired of all dry tyranny
Scales will tip like the seasons each other flip
©juckoon
J