If problems were leaves
mine would be dried husks of
contemplation.
Every one I tried to solve would
just crumble between my fingers.
When I walk on the echoes of
deliberation its stalks penetrate
deep within my wandering.
Why does nothing grow on
falling leaves of deterioration.
A dilemma of reflection never grows
it only crumbles beneath palms.
Clasping at tears never diluted
but even though expelled.
Never did a single drop help the problems.
Jun 14, 2018
Jun 14, 2018 at 7:53 AM UTC
If problems were leaves
mine would be dried husks of
contemplation.
Every one I tried to solve would
just crumble between my fingers.
When I walk on the echoes of
deliberation its stalks penetrate
deep within my wandering.
Why does nothing grow on
falling leaves of deterioration.
A dilemma of reflection never grows
it only crumbles beneath palms.
Clasping at tears never diluted
but even though expelled.
Never did a single drop help the problems.
