Pennies lie forgotten, tarnished in the dust,
Cast aside by hands that no longer trust
Their humble worth, deemed of no use,
A currency cheapened, a fate unexcused.
While hundred dollar bills, crisp and bright,
Are sought and praised, a glittering sight.
Yet beneath the gleam, a truth concealed,
Counterfeit hearts, their falseness revealed.
In the realm of love, it's much the same,
True devotion, overlooked, bears the blame.
Genuine hearts, with love to give,
Are often spurned, left to forgive.
For those who chase the flash and flair,
Are drawn to illusions, unaware,
That the love they seek, so grand, so rare,
Is often a mask, a vacant stare.
True love, like pennies, is pure and real,
Steadfast and humble, its value concealed.
But in a world that craves the grand,
It's the counterfeit hearts that seem to command.
Yet in the end, when all is laid bare,
The worth of true love will compare
To a treasure far beyond the guise,
A fortune found in honest eyes.
YOU ARE READING
This house was never a home
PoetryThis place was never home, The things that lie in it was memorizing some a taunting memory other pleasant some not
