Handbook to the Optimistic Skeptic
These scars may not have faded
But the bloodied wounds have closed.
From a world at last degraded
To reflected hate exposed.
And the truth is hard to follow
When the truth is truth itself.
But I can’t begrudge the hollow
Toys forgotten on the shelf.
The words inside a fiction
Don’t explain what they don’t know.
But if spoken with conviction
It provides a lovely show.
So people hide in masses
-More the milk, the less it’s spilled-
But they forget the glasses
Only barely halfway filled.
But the bloodied wounds have closed.
From a world at last degraded
To reflected hate exposed.
And the truth is hard to follow
When the truth is truth itself.
But I can’t begrudge the hollow
Toys forgotten on the shelf.
The words inside a fiction
Don’t explain what they don’t know.
But if spoken with conviction
It provides a lovely show.
So people hide in masses
-More the milk, the less it’s spilled-
But they forget the glasses
Only barely halfway filled.
♠ ♠ ♠
This is actually a new one, for once. I started it a while ago, but I did the last two and a half verses today. It's a shorter one, which is unlike me, but it didn't feel like the kind of poem that should drag on and on.