I'm an image of actions and floral words
I could be a poem in another world
They hymn when someone strums the chords
But I am no image of someone in the history
I'm a poem more likely not to rhyme
A music unlikely for the ears
I'm the three lines on the expected four-line-poem
The disappointment to the words at the end
A sound you will not recognize
I'm an art made of flaws
Made in time of burn and fire
Maybe to dust I came, to dust I'll belong
A hypocrite of my own
My thoughts betray me more than my words
A sinner who creeds at night, whole but shattered
But I am graced, making me beautifully flawed
The novel that may leave you warm yet hanging
Like how I am built with good intentions and wonders
