Beware the child cold and calloused,
Never warmed by the village fire.
Old wisdom spat by fools,
Who could never understand the dire.
The world is not tinder to be lit,
By some wayward flame that sits.
Some cosmic karma they think,
The return of the prodigal son, orphaned.
It's softer, the truth, and that.
They never burn, but make vast.
New villages, for the weak and small,
New villages to raise them all.
YOU ARE READING
Often confusing
PoetrySecond part to a muses musings because wattpad has a story limit. . . I mean an enthralling book of stories
