Rags said to Riches

What is it you know my dear, that i so seemingly don’t?

Indeed you speak of many things through smiles of which you gloat

But hold your throat that blindly chokes because now, oh now, you know

that I am the ear, the eye, the sent and with every seed I sow

I’m slipping though your fingers my dear, in a fist you clench so tight

And as I drip beneath your feet you take my strength to fight

Yes, yes I could, and perhaps I might spear arms for you again

though I am the claws that clutch all things and never speak in vain

And when I regain my thoughts from the floor you’ll pull me right back in

to an ignorance you cannot see, of want and every whim

So in this sombre you'll certainly sin, guarding as I ponder

of you the blind, who cease to see, and stumble as you wonder

The End

0 comments about this poem Feed