On Pallet Frames

On pallet frames, trees are figurines.
Split asunder becomes the dormancy stapling us down.
Vices strike hard; a front line of mistakes.
During the wake, nostalgia has a bitter taste.
A scave approaches steadfast.
We see the sunsets in reverse.
Ascending alone, but still remaining calm.
The white noise becomes a part of life.
And the street walkers are looking fine.
Let's enjoy the ascension for a while.
In the offing, a wallowing widow suspends her dignity.
But there are always tracks able to guide trouble away.
On pallet frames, we see the sunsets in reverse.
Let's enjoy the ascension for a while.