This is what saddens.

This is what saddens:

Being available, but unknown
Torn and unstiched;
Wondering if wandering away will message discontent,
Or worse yet, go unnoticed.

Posturing in all its egoic vulgarity
Seems all that is left
On windswept firmanents such as this.

The cycle is close to breaking
Joining
And starting again

Soulwood, counting the rings
Then recognizing the deification of ego and contracting
To a single point of light that ends and begins

Everything.