Might we cry simply
from the weight of something else?
All our hopes are barring weight
on just one single shelf.
Might we ebb nearer
to, say, an empty room,
ready to be filled,
not fully consumed.
He said to me, once before,
"Why would I pick the egg,
that is already colored black,
when a fresh white one now has came."
I see now, I get it.
The irony's not lost.
But, don't you see the color,
once the dark egg is embossed?
Maybe the shelf if breaking,
the barrings wearing thin.
But, if we do some rearranging...
clean off all the crap,
could we find the shelf
is full of treasure,
and worthwhile to go back.
For sometimes new is brilliant
fresh color has appeal.
But, what of all the treasures,
left buried ever near.
Won't they some day shine?
Spark notice once again?
Be all we ever wanted?
A remnant with no end.
I tell you, life is complex.
The facades all do have cracks.
Yet, beneath the rubble.
The beauty still fights back.
No comments:
Post a Comment