I'm all alone,
fuming at myself,
waving a great flag
of failure.

I liked the idea of fiasco as failure gone to church, ... How does that become a transcendent thing? And that morphed into the different mini-themes.

Then she smiles, like it's
the first time she's seen sun
after a decade of winters.

Instead,
she's as still
as a leaf-littered pond,
dark water evaporating,
waiting desperately for rain.

They scribble on notepads,
the sound of their pens
scratching the judgemental air.

Stella scribbled
in thick black texta
across half the pages
of my best storybook,
filled with people who ventured
where their hearts took them.
Beautiful worlds beyond mine.