Every kind syllable hurts

Your letters tell me you are well
and to make sure I understand
there are some drawings from your hand
of flowers and of churches too.
The words are chosen with much care
and all of this makes me aware
this is no longer you at all.

Your letters tell me nothing’s well
between the lines I read goodbyes
I see your honest, caring eyes
and how you struggle to find ways
of letting go in friendly words
but every kind syllable hurts
this is no longer us at all.

It is the way it is

It is.
The chosen road,
it is the way it is.

Is it the only way,
dividing destiny
and designation
each in its own
secluded section?

A road is just a way
to go or not.

Should one obey the tarmac
as laid out
or be a bird
and fly
regardless of direction?

It is the way it is,
and every road
leads to reflection.