Gray the day

wet with rain

fog wrapped and dripping

a heavy hand.

The process to be worked

the step by step by step

the small pool of light right there

at your feet

all that  can be seen.

Misunderstood trust

waits patiently for your hand;

no promises, there were never really any.

The story was a good one

but the ending was not yours to write.

You are barely all you ever had

to start with, and to end with.

The basketful of hope like so much down

cast to the wind

some to fly and warm another

some flies in your face.

It is not a sentence for the convicted.

It is not a reward for perfection or imperfection hidden.

It is bare faced and honest,

life among the living

if you choose to live it.

It comes with messiness, with joy, with sorrow

with triumph and tragedy

and so little explanation.