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
Monosyllabi
We talk about our work, the mundane occurrences of the day, And before long we get silent, running out of things to say, You have your share of problems, and I have my share, Exhausted, we just give each other