Poem #6

So elegant and ostentatious, the speckled color of your coat.

How fancy you must feel, dappled in greens, reds, and oranges.

You try to cover the decay, the spots of brown, a

nd the poor, empty patchwork.

Stunning, certainly, yet showing signs of troubling times.

It’s not a worry, love. 

The marks of toil are the more beautiful knowing your trials.

I imagine some small signs of the years are apparent on my own person.

The uncertainties, the emptiness, and a fractured mind are difficult to conceal at times.

Threadbare we must be to the ones who know us best.

Marked by the changes years inevitably leave as a courtesy.

If only we could trade stories, you and I, 

though one would receive the poorer trade.

The tales told by an attractive sort are always the more fascinating than I have to share.

Ahh, such a moody girl to get a bit warmer for my visit.

Frankly, I was enjoying the solace of your downturned countenance.

I thought today we were commiserating, 

unburdening one another of loneliness and fading dreams.

Please do not be ill, I meant no offense, looking only for a connection.

Certainly you do the same, I have seen it, drearily exorcising misery.

And, do not be offended, but you have been somewhat fussy today.

Thankfully you seem in good spirits now, treating our friends to a hospitable visit.

It’s been a good day keeping company with you to drive back the loneliness.

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