Why is it we have the means to be nice,
but often instead, we're as cold as ice?
Does our mind let loose from some hidden noose,
secret thoughts that are of no good use?
Our words hang like an unlit sconce.
Do I dare think of it, even once?
Our consciousness beckons like the rising sun,
witnessed by us only, no other one.
Down! Like a hammer that does concuss,
we awaken, alive, aptly conscious.
TLH © 05-24-2012
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Copyright © Tanya Harrington