| Solstice In my habbit I fit perfect Into what has come about Quite typically without Any power Like a square peg jammed in To a circle hole I'm crammed in To this tiny mold, laid flat, with no room To peek about The press is hers and the Grip was his and I'm Caught between what was And what is Gone Spawned, growing like seeds inside a pod Each one a tiny thought Laying dormant in my mind's winter Begging for a solstice |