Twisted words impale so, absolute.  
They make noise
increasing pressure.
The space between
continues and drifts
over time.  

It’s hard to know where this path began.

Pebbles in shoes seem so, inconsequential.
We hardly care,
they are removed.

So it begins.  
The pebbles journey,
tossed away
with little meaning,
but in itself  
carries the dew,
that feds the seed
of discontent.

The space between,
over time
without attention.
These little words
fed by pride.
Divide.