The grit under a shoe on a tile
floor, is heard, an ugly sound,
under duress, of a hardened sole,
                Or is it the soul that has no give,
     No mercy, with which to live,
Scapes of wrath, scratches on the superficial,
Eke and etch an existence, where None, stood a chance,
For None was luckier than most, and a Host of Others it
appears, in relief. None, Other can I trust, None Other do
I have.


©DWE022014