Ethereal Illusions // Poetry Book

Old Toys

Some people call me new...
Others call me old.
But there is only few,
Who see my true mold.

I am incomplete.
You can't deny.
That I don't meant,
What society wants to find.

Cracks in the moon,
Mirror just my own.
I can't fix my tune,
Or get a perfection loan.

I know me.
Or at lest I think...
But am I truly free?
From society's perfect stink.

They think they know it all.
But so do we,
In the end we will fall.
Like the sun every day.
And rip like the dollars we pay.

I may be old.
Rusted and broken.
But I am still worth a shinny token.

Because I still go. . .
With a crank and a push.
Though I can't go as fast.
And not sure if I will last.

I now that all things will soon be left in the past.

With love,
A.C. Claire.