But the poison speak,
Is ill fought never leak,
Alas is drop as little known,
But spirits dined to moan,
The loss of echo, the ripples;
The ripples fade, my life tipples,
At last there was no drink,
At last, their mind moved to brink,
Writes the lessons that learned,
Who could have to better earned,
For the sound an hour is awake,
Is but little sound too hard to make,
For the loudness cries a glass to break,
More words he said his heart was fake,
I am sat by the silence and the thought,
To read the same words I steadily fought,
Then soon forgot the man I used to be,
Then chose to be the man I want to be,
Through the former I am no saint better,
Though latter I hope then to be better,
In the roads I walk and much I tried,
Is how perverse be the truth all I lied,
At every tick of silent clock to prize,
Are the stars beheld to fall, to rise;
That I am still as known the past yet,
Can only wash away with rain so wet,
Who knew himself then and will walk,
Sits down with ye and begins to talk.

Category:
Life, Poetry, Works
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