When the dust settles,
The treadmill of melees,
The same story of left-halfway,
Forget not to dispense some of it anyway.
The more raw-nerved, edgy,
The less feasibility of such largesse.
A sager one’s giving counts even foggy
Somehow for the desperation of co-existence.
Though the azure canopy very often glowers,
The dissimulating machinations of mankind gone awry,
Every thinking being still bereft of such a shower,
To make his day, the endless wiles wary.
A sense of being utile: The philter
If even a kind word matters,
Then why not the same motive
That drives to corresponding an initiative—
The panacea, for living and casting a look yonder.
Even if bated the breath,
The swollen red eyes bleary,
The snuffling wheezes out the birth
Of the same paean, for living though blurry.
