I left my focus at the threshold.
You tried to hold my hand and embrace the change, but the stirring of the heart is drawing close.
Don’t worry about the journey as we arrive. It may be cold, hot or perfect to the touch. Like the fireflies by the pond, a short time we have here running in parallels.
We write and sing about storms but it is the mist that stings with chills.
No devotion to the souls that weep in autumn. We gather and collect those innocent hearts that have been broken.