Little Things Poem by Paul Reed

In what unsmiling contempt we hold
The beautiful little things,
We lock them outside in the cold
Prevent them spreading their wings;

Our true feelings are kept on shelves
We forage forever elsewhere,
We look at our vain-ridden selves
But in our hearts we do not dare;

The magnitude of the smaller
When under the microscope viewed
Suddenly become much taller
As our normal vision is skewed;

We favour the bigger and bolder
As we look to immodestly gain,
But as we grow steadily older
The little things entice us again.