I once took a stroll down the aisle of surrealism.
There I stumbled upon a fellow named kindness.
There he lay, coated with the throes of death.
His state reflected humanity to me, through a prism.
The needles of social distancing, shared with him, blindness.
Fear manipulated his arms and legs, making them a wreath.
His skin was adorned with painful sores of selfishness.
The seats of authority placed him in enforcing chains.
His shriveled fingers cut off by the shears of survival.
I passed him by like many others, pushed by carelessness.
He then whispered to me, his voice explaining his pains.
His message carried on the view less wings of revival.
A little good, a little give, a little share, a little nice.
Can turn a solid beating mass of bloodied flesh.
Into a melting, fired up, piece of broken ice.
A little concert of care, by the thoughtful and wise.
Can light the bulb of hope and create a hospitality mesh.
Making joy and happiness, unlock the fountain of the eyes.
YOU ARE READING
The Labyrinth
PoetryCollection of poems of life That brings joy to the heart That put end to strife And portrays in words so simple, the life in art
