Pennies, cast in copper sheen,
Forgotten in the cracks unseen,
Cheap and humble, plain and small,
Their worth dismissed by one and all.
A hundred dollar bill, so crisp,
In every hand a whispered lisp,
More sought, more held in high esteem,
Yet shadows cloak its gleaming beam.
Forgers craft with cunning hands,
Impostors weave deceitful strands,
While pennies, true and always plain,
Are left behind in love's disdain.
Just like the coins, so pure, so slight,
True hearts are cast into the night,
For fancier notes that shine and gleam,
Though hollow in their gilded dream.
The one who loves with steadfast care,
Is often met with cold, blank stare,
For those whose love is but a guise,
A flashy lure, a sweet disguise.
But in the end, as years go by,
The truth will shine, the false will die,
For pennies, though they're worth so few,
Hold value time alone makes true.
And so it is with love that's real,
Though overlooked, it's what we feel,
In hearts that beat with honest fire,
Unseen, unsung, they lift us higher.
YOU ARE READING
This house was never a home
PoëzieThis place was never home, The things that lie in it was memorizing some a taunting memory other pleasant some not
