Poetic Pathetic

The cracks of man are many and more with the draw of a day holding a store.

From sleepless nights to drowsy days, the hidden inner the outer betrays.

The foundation, fated to fall, fell through nascent neglect and shady shawl.

The bust is broken, the tatters token, the seismic silence spoken.

The question left for conscience cracked is whether or not it was ever intact.

That query aside, the bumps are what make the ride.

The turmoil and toil remind you are alive, like your tongue before sweet honey from the hive.

So just try not to throw too many rocks, your glass house can only take so many shocks.

Advertisements

Leave a Reply

Fill in your details below or click an icon to log in:

WordPress.com Logo

You are commenting using your WordPress.com account. Log Out / Change )

Twitter picture

You are commenting using your Twitter account. Log Out / Change )

Facebook photo

You are commenting using your Facebook account. Log Out / Change )

Google+ photo

You are commenting using your Google+ account. Log Out / Change )

Connecting to %s