The sidewalk is uneven, cracked from here to there. The trees are uneven, winter branches cold and bare. Her breathing is uneven and she’s unsteady on her feet. The icicles are uneven, hanging from a rooftop above the street. His hair is uneven, cut shorter on one side. The car drives uneven, it’s an uneven ride. Her stories are uneven, she’s grasping at straws, to make sense of a world that leaves her mostly in awe. The television is uneven, the programs are skewed. There’s nothing but tragedy on the nightly news. Her balance is uneven, but what can she do? Her head is on backwards and there’s no getting through. The snow is in patches, uneven on the ground, warmer temps begin to melt it, not making a sound. Her memory is uneven, without a doubt. Words simply disappear from her brain, what’s this about? Her resilience is uneven, it slips from her hands, unsure of herself and where she will land. She attempts to be resolute, but that’s uneven too…what, where, when, why and most of all: who ? The days are uneven and so are her shoes. The fridge is uneven but there’s plenty of booze. The candlelight is uneven, it’s a flickering flame. She’s stretched to her limit playing this masochistic game. The silence is uneven, it screams in her ear; the noise is uneven, raising hackles of fear. The clouds are uneven, piercing the sky. The moon is uneven, she bellows a loud sigh. Politics are uneven, what more is there to say? Her ruminations are uneven as she chews thoughts away. The cycle of life is uneven, and nothing is fair, but the uneven feelings of loneliness are there. She’s uneven in temperament, uneven in her bones, uneven in her decisions, too many uneven unknowns.