In the Sweet Spring

One must hope. And when you go outside, the twigs are greener. They cannot break, they only bend. Quietly they breeze their way through, but yet they cannot prevail. I must prevail. I have no way to really get there, but I ask for mercy. I want to go away soon. I want to go to warmth, and love and less judgement. But there is the reality, and the reality is that it is not there yet. Not yet.