Love and Words


the rest of the world


In my story,

all that is lost,

is found.

In my story,

all that is wrong,

is undone.

What happens,

in yours?

And she said,

once I knew

that the things I dreamed of

were but moments from my hand,

and now,


I try not to think of such things.

And he replied,

what good is it

to talk,

when we can't decide?

In someone else's story,

they'd lead a lamb to a field

and leave it lost,

in hopes the gods

would mistake its cries

for the tears of a child.

In someone else's story,

prayers are words

that describe our illusions

in order to hide

our own

fears and desires.


Who are we,

to even think,

of leaving

the least of god's creatures

crying in pain

in hopes of our own gain?

Who are we,

to think,

that our own cries

are not worthy to be heard?

In my story,

all that is lost

is found

and every worn child

gets to grow again.

What happens in yours?

And she said,

in my story,

in my story,

life unfolds

like a flower

blown by the wind,

and the best I can hope for,

is for the strength

to begin.

And he said,

in my story,

I am convinced

I am king.

Only I rule a land

that is empty.


Why is it,

that we cling to such

hopeless things,

when all around us

and in every moment

we are constantly shown

that life

is abundant

and full of things to give,

yet we believe

all the lies we are told

without a thought

of looking beyond the

words that are sold.

And if we did,

if we did,

what would we find?

Would we find,

that I am enough for myself.

And that you,

complete you.

And that together,

we don't need anyone.

Except perhaps,

the rest of the world.

In my story,

none of us

has even begun.

What happens in yours?


decagon          poetry



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