Ebb & Flow.

Despair, when there's nothing to like,
vanity, the death of excessive pride.
And then you put yourself in my shoes,
trifling a matter, vulnerable an excuse.
Pique'd, I submitted to the uncombed tress,
it sounds naive but it was comfortable distress;
and the look matched more than your dress,
infirm with stress, inadequate in caress.
Lest we broke out of those confines
and made ourselves susceptible;
to the withering shadows of doubt that
only stretched to become as loud.
For nonplussed, excitement is as
demeaning, as you not responding.

Maybe the size did alter and you grew,
out of my shoes. Terrific, in effect. but,
it is this tranquil which ceases to exist.
Establishing calmer demeanor, dispirit;
one found slow nonchalance on self merit.
and that is what you came across,
cleaning all of the unbridled moss,
as what gathered by stones can be dusted;
unlike metal, they don't get rusted.
And the rust is what we pine for most,
when opposed, we slowly corrode and
become equal partners in dying minutes.

You realized then and struck a discordant tune,
slipped out of this desert, a steady sand dune.
I now know that we win little, overall we lose,
you could've stuck but for a fresh pair of shoes.