the consequence of a
garden, overgrown
sustenance,
not quite surviving but
paralleled,
in familial adjacents,
just shy of 
idyllic
as the withered
dance
with gravity.

so,
some selfsame tragedies
get
to being
pondered,
as the space between 
clock hands
gets
to being
squandered,
all in awe
of the absence much of
anything
at all. 

as detention goes,
these halls are far from
cruelty,
while the air outside
cries
egregious subtleties,
the well-worn whispers of
beauty,
or the like.

and so,
a perspective
grows, in
steady,
each day
away from demise and 
returned
to the best wasted ways of 
time.