"A world possesses an abstract item."
After six refreshes,
This seemed like
A random sentence
That I could work with...
Although, the third one...
"A heterosexual spreads himself."
Had definite possibilities, too -
Probably not fit for children, though!
So, how could we describe
This abstract item,
Within our grasp?
That is, assuming a world
Might be a conclave of souls,
Huddled against deadly cold
Of unused, pitch Outer Space.
It could be that blue marble
That we dig our feet into,
Even as green phases to brown.
Do we have any true love,
When we trash others and our land,
Without thought of damage caused?
Prove me wrong, yet I doubt man
Will learn the restraint of self
To gain such a devotion...
Is there a society,
With grace and calm dignity,
When lives revolve 'round TV
Or phones, or technologies -
Tools to battle apathy...?
What does our world possess,
In the midst of our distress,
Claiming we're not like our guests?
Alas, I feel like I am
Just pulling at frayed, loose threads,
Stringing ideas together
To form a derived fabric,
From which my world has been cut...
Not knowing if it connects
With your life's rich tapestry
Like some knitter's patchwork quilts.
What makes the item abstract,
Sentence random, like a crash
Making the world less intact,
Hiding meaning with words brash?
I put up my quill,
Dissatisfied still -
Perhaps today will,
With effort, unveil
A story to tell...
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