February Fourteenth

Friendly forests frequently find fretful father’s furrowed, frowning forehead

focused, foraging for food, fearing frozen fruits from financial failures

fighting families fashioning fire filled foxholes freeing flowers floating forward.

This small body of text may seem like incoherent ramblings trying to act like poetry, but I wrote it with a sort of fictitious story line to go with it. Take it at face value if you can. A man often goes into a wooded area to hide his despair from his family as they fall on hard times. He is worried how he will provide for them and continue to put food on the table. Meanwhile, his wife and children fill the foxhole of their home with fleeting materialistic things. All the while their simple innocence and peace disappears without their knowledge as they sink further into their unassuming reality. Only the man knows what is at stake.

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