The wait weighed and weighed and weighed

woefully on the continuously crumbling fence

that remained its only resilient defense.

Defense from the lachrymose world—

the sole angelic accolade from crushing solitude—

kept everything within veiled in a citadel cocoon.

Yet the decades that crafted the protective cocoon

that huddled the flowers, the vines, the feeble trees together

could only last so lonesomely long without feeling lesser.

That barrier fence had weathered the storms of doubt—of miserable mist

all in haggard effort to keep within

like a contained, concealed beast of a whirlwind.

All the pressure, the years, the strain, against the fence

keeps its eagle-like eyes searching—hoping for more outside

as faces passed with none in the garden there to arrive.

Yet when all dreams of someone unlocking that loaded dam within,

of someone reaching through the obvious hurt of vines,

a reverberating click sounded across the confines.