You see nothing in the air,
Nothing that despises nor loves you,
Except for a menacing, everlasting
Pocketful of
Disaster.

You miss the hand-holding,
The warmth of the neighbors,
The silence of the room.
But you are forced to move.

Push on, push on,
calls the wind.
No cameras around to observe you,
But a tingle slides down your spine.

"Never too late";
The hardest key to hold.
It brings up the whistles
Of the harmless breeze.

Looking up at the sky.
Full moon.
That's nothing at all,
Says the trees' awful stare.

Much, much more to come,
Shoes squeaking on the gravel.
You come to a dead end.
Time to turn back.

Turning around,
Nothing more to see
Except for a menacing, everlasting
Pocketful of
Disaster.