A Painful Monotony

Don't you know they're all the same?
Every bouquet is picked from the same field
Every lily and every tulip and every forget-me-not
Has been forgotten by someone
Because the flowers, they're all the same
All lips possess that fleeting sweet taste
That's erased by your afternoon tea
The same tongue that we all possess
Can be used as a spear or as a lullaby
The tongue can say things to make us cry
Yet all lips and all tongues taste the same
Isn't it true, that all hands are the same?
Warm, with blood rushing through them
Matching perfectly with my hand
Yet all hands fit together like jigsaw pieces
All the hands in the world tied together by a string
The hands, they are all the same
What is different? The soul?
The sparkle in the eye that reminds us
That our inner demons and angels lie not
In our capacity to love, or to kiss or caress
The only difference between us is
One person possesses his self-worth in his soul
While the other values himself
By assessing how much damage his hands can do

Comments

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Olga's Poetry & Thoughts

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