Poem #2,740 | How little we are
How little we are [a-lone
with ourselves] – naught
is each last act – nothing
to hold to if not held to –
some will do [with some
half-way house] & some
will never embrace ‘gain
because being held was
another’s gain – minutes
in silence are a luxury of
sorts – a quiet court with
less quarrels & intrigues
to bruise time’s face – As
those houses are traded
in tailing of self-worth &
esteem – to fatten how it
seems to others & us – in
buying & selling it is lost
[even as deeds fold] – At
that lone moment you’ll
be held – but only if love
was less for investments