My crooked feelings run all along the pathways and byways
and along the ways pick up
The predicted has gone feral and that trail is crooked too,
following along a meandering river with no name.
Like a cottage with a leaning chimney and floors that marbles always roll down
and a cabinet door that swings wide open if not wedged with an old can of something.
My emotions have built a wall that leans lopsided around my heart
and the roses twine through and mask
the untidy joinings.
But the disordered flowers still smell,
the petals bendable sweetness,
and crooked windows let the light escape in patterns that captivate the audience
by their unexpectedness.
I can see the straight and narrow,
and its very tidy
it’s very well ordered,
and on paper I can see how it would look good,
perfection on a resume,
but the structured, the manicured and trimmed is not sustainable,
within my crooked world.