Strands of Belief
We pluck fluffy balls of cotton from so many different plants, Having no idea, which would end up in towels, mops, and pants, But every tuft itself, shorn of identity, has no consequence to dread, Caring even less, that many
Call Me Butcher
When outstretched hands reach out for your support, And you routinely ignore them like another status report, If your arms cannot reach to those hanging by strands, Maybe you should consider chop chop chopping your hands. When tired legs try
Heteroculture
When someone preaches culture, as scientifically as horticulture, Just stand up and let them know, enough of this farcical show, That you already have yours, and the rest of them, have theirs, Music comes about, as much from common sound,
Pollyanna
When you are faced with odds of insurmountable strength, It is all right, to not see the mission through to its full length, Will you forgo the applause, just to pull down the curtain, Or push forward until the goal
Tunnel
There are those that trust light, because it has a beginning, And others still who fear it not, because it has an ending, But darkness is another matter, for, it begins nowhere, And even in the midst of light, is