Wherever the mind wishes to walk,
whenever whitewashed in morning light,
it wove itself into the wicker and blinds
of windowless rooms and wilting skies,
shadows stolen by the widows web.
It was how worthwhile dreams survived,
Wrapped in memories that are wished and willed—
Waning crescent frown of the Moon,
wrought from our wrath---the Wendigo,
woebegone by the ravenous warped hunger
the worshipped wail away with,
into the woeful nights here.
Perhaps it was---carved into the wrothful wood,
written into the worthless flesh of,
the sycamore and the willow.
Whirring whispers of the reeds flow
beautifully while waiting in the weeds,
for a path through this weald.
Whether the warmth of love,
or the wrenching sadness that whorls
upon a wayfaring world that wishes itself,
willfully into the surrender.