the morose writer

I had the opportunity to visit Sternberg in the Swabian Alps, just a short drive away from where my sister lives. She and her mother took me on an adventure through the greenery of the charming mountains.

The other was perched ever-so-elegantly upon intricately embroidered pillows and cushions, a novel from the bookshelf blessed by their selection, and a warm fire burning beside them, illuminating the inked patterns which kept languor at bay.

how I hate you

emotions can never explain

the faults I find in you

i can never escape

the way I feel

i can never understand

the way I see you

in all your horrid glory

it’s inexplicable

I am enclosed in a Box,
like many other souls.
Some come willingly,
some are forced.

I'm not sure how I got here:
Purposely; accidentally:
it doesn't matter now.
I simply dwell in this Box. 

A tranquil bright day to be treasured—

Interrupted by naught but pressure:

A mountain did quake

And the planet did shake:

And destruction beyond basic measure.