Sweetness, and softness were old friends seldom heard from.

I’d hear them scream for me on sunny days, when honey rays sang from the skies.

But more I hear their stoney silence in this winters kingdom come.

I long for their flowery words and hopeful hands but instead I hold our broken ties.

I wonder what sweetness would say to the rage that paints my face.

Perhaps a spoonful of sugar and a moonful of hope would help me clean.

But here the coffee is bitter and the stars are alone in their place.

Instead sweetness’s smell slowly lingers, like a friend gone and been.

I wonder what softness would say to the rocky, crisp, cape that frames my shoulders.

I used to wear pink bows and dip my toes in softness’s rosey bird bath.

But now my wardrobe is full of these austere shoes and coats made from boulders.

Through these halls softness ran with little thought but left the echo of her laugh.

I miss my two old friends. Those two girls who helped and watched me grow.

I think of them often. And when the weather clears I wonder if they may show.

Perhaps I‘ve been the bad friend and perhaps I should call them to me.

And maybe in bad weather and face paint and these new clothes, it’s still me, they wish to see.