Oh how grey life can get, with the scent of death to stink
on, maybe it’s too much of a good thing. Like a village
missing it’s idiot, narrow and intense at the best of times.
And if a poem is hungry, it will be kissing anyone, strangers
or friends, just to comfort those private pains. It’s okay
to have a low tolerance for pain, at least the beauty of
small things get noticed. But the breathe of few, could
ever stir the insides up, motivating one to part everything
that had ever worked for
(knowledge variable)