Otherwise distant

sometimes in the

quiet rooms where

the light is

dim and expectations

can wander along

aimlessly

between the shadows

of what could

have been and

what the present

has become a

sun setting gently

on a life

well lived versus

one of mere existence

where reality doesn’t 

quite meet those

otherwise distant dreams

coming down

a hill into

the mist covering

along the contours

where life’s bitter

aftertaste of almost

is simply a

lone curtain

forever blowing in

the wind

the disillusionment of

abandonment standing

against the wall

alone by itself