Curling his feet and cowering while
drawing circles with his tongue
He groomed his way into repetition
failing to notice the new and appointed
Pale and stale were his bleak ambitions
His face wrinkled not because of ailing time
as he would get so wet whenever
it rained feathers and leaves,
equally moist and heavy
It was the first frowning week of August
and Autumn had yet to peek through
its dripping nose, sniffling with cold
Enemy was not time itself
Kind, yet repaid with absent gestures of disgust
and mockery from his side
And as nature tried ever so hard to muffle
its besieging dried out league and its scuffle,
he kept deriving his inappropriate emotions
from hope and chewed out fairytales
Clipping his nails to a harmless sight
Brooming his doorway for no one every night
Reeling in his depression so even his happiness cried
All of this
he could have done so,
and he just might...