Practical over pleasure.
But that doesn’t mean never.
A delicate balancing of the heart.
Over, over and again you restart.
In consciousness you act as to be seen,
But impervious, on no reputation you lean.
It’s the drive to be safe in the world that you tread.
Never quite knowing the path down which you’ve been lead.
Do you rush past the blossoms and beetles that crawl?
Or observe the fine details of every and all?
For what you see is a Faberge reflection.
But simply remorse reveals no point of inflection.
It slips further unchanged, forgotten it’s injustice.
And all the other can do is trust us.
To everyone ever, I’d like to communicate too.
It’s hard without you. Harder with you.