You see, but you do not observe.
Okay, chill out, Sherlock.
Take a look at the world today,
A mass produced commodity.
Within the sea of bright patterns,
Gaudy jewelry, trendy haircuts,
Who can tell the truth worth
Of a person at single glance?
Tiny details at every turn,
And sometimes—most times—
The effort worthless.
Individualism, a facade.
Mere observation answers not,
The solution: conversation.
But I’m too tired for that!
Time glides gracefully,
Then a single second strikes.
Peace vanishes, and—
The rules upturn and reshape.
A whole world ends abruptly.
If we could change our faces,
As easily as rolling up a sleeve,
What mischief could be accomplished?
But perhaps a smile,
Rapidly shifting shapes—
Can inflict damage worse.
Man and woman meet,
A connection of rare minds.
But life works counter;
The only notable spark
Left to smolder patiently.
Once a Man with a sneaky thought,
Pounced on a passerby in the night.
Shouts cut the air as they fought,
Until the alley floods with light.
A piercing voice shouts, “Stop, you cur!”
Both participants freeze in shock.
Behold the pink petticoat and Scottish burr,
The beauty of a Woman wielding a rock.
“Truly?” cried the would-be robber,
Cackling and thinking himself blessed.
He strikes down his victim with a clobber,
Before turning attention to his Scottish guest.
They each regard the other with hidden glee;
The Man darts forward with raised fists,
The Woman dodges and maneuvers a knee,
Knocking the Man down in the most surprising of twists.
The Woman brushes off her skirt with a grin.
Walks to the fallen victim, who stands brightly,
Pocketing the Man’s wallet, she laughs, “‘Tis a true win!”
The pair saunters off, a vision most sightly.
Blah, blah, boopity, blah.
Would you care to elaborate?
Spoken words with no meaning.
Amusing, the lies you fabricate.
I hold my heart close.
You bestow no trust unearned.
We remain distant.
Lifting the bricks to reveal
Earthy soil speckled with:
Pebbles, glass, earthworms—
A subterranean world unleashed.
Smoky air drifting in the breeze,
The scent of dead wood and leaves
Clinging to every fabric.
A crackling fire warms the heart.
From the clutter and junk
A vision appears vaguely,
The garden lying in the wake
Of rubble and disuse.