Mirage Of Existence.

Beneath the faces of Jasper
lies some rough clay.
Inside the darkest coal
we find gold refined.

Within each stormy phase,
lies a sleeping node.
Around every peaceful road,
We hear chants of warfare.

In every broken villa,
stands a fence too high to scale.
In every fortified garrison
Lies too many vaults that can be penetrated.

The mightiest pens,
use the smallest hands.
The smaller heads,
wear the biggest crowns.
Tuesday, March 27, 2018
Topic(s) of this poem: time
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