Vanity, living crippled
tossed about in prose
with little inspiration.
Truth is never that simple.
It is a vengeful game,
the circle called life.
Worn down to fragmented sentences…
it unfolds precariously,
as if it were a storybook pocket knife.
So, with its own pace…
off comes the pageantry of leather and lace.
Anchored down like a ship adrift in the desert.
An ego of passion, ages, less lace, more hapless effort.
These are not handicapped visions.
Nor, clairvoyant disabled, decisions,.
Simply, matters of the heart, at recess.
A recant of which…
self came first.
Let grace ring
Let grace ring on…
on broken wing and iron wheel.
Let grace meet the path where feet cannot feel.