Every single day a tear drop sings a song of remembrance. A tease that yelps from a male's mouth, is it of love? But, appears a hurtful truth to the love. Eyes that have slowly blurred in agony to spare a wholesome spirit of the harsh rays of light. We need not much of anything to see the truth, but to wonder what is left of life as we know it. A sad blink on reality.
A heart radiates a love for God. In turn, give a dirty squint on those walks of life that have dared to raise a glass in disarray. They give praise to a selfish mind, one that keeps no mind to a stance of equality. And for that, tis true that we are not. For we are the better. The better in remembering their childish cravings, fed them a golden spoon--though I laugh for it were rustic yellow. In it that I feed myself with a pure utensil.
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