Uneven legs don't make a lame,
These streets, full of them, are just a look.
Full of wounded hearts, just aim.
Fictional wisdom, being an owl.
Flying (dusk to dawn)just who,
Years drip from the tables, greasy,
Dirty with mistakes, dreamed dreams, torn
And as much as they say, there is no further,
There is no second chance, just spitting,
spit on the sidewalk what was left in between,
In the distance between life and the beast in the middle, ,
We cannot escape from the greatest rival.
So many accomplished and rich and strong,
seeing an unfinished cracked mirror
with the matters pending, the sorts
Things we put there and say: failed.
The biggest loser is not the one that fails
but the one considered unfinished, shattered,
deformed from the self to the image it carves..