Everything he touches turns to gold
But his perceptions are skewed
To him it still looks like stone
Grey and cold and uninviting:
"If only I could see through your eyes,
Would I find happiness there?
Would the world look beautiful?"
After all,
The grass is always greener...
...right?
Will nothing go my way?
Whatever Midas was given,
My gift is the antithesis
I take the best into my hands
And out of them falls the worst,
It shatters on the ground.
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Your writing style makes me happy, though sometimes the content is sad... I guess mine is too, though.
ReplyDeleteWow. Such a shift in style from your normal work. Love it, Paul.
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