Cry Baby Lost In Wood

When I see more of thorns than rose And my bias sees them as foes, That is how the world often goes. People see what they like to see, I read what may my whims fancy, Perhaps, so how I’m made to be. Poor thorn’s prey to my pampered eyes— To truth of life never made wise, Truth stays deep, shallow lie the lies. The world has always been like that, It wears the same vicarious hat, Change won’t find it easy to bat. It’s hard to change one’s attitude, On change what we do is to brood, Poor old babe remains lost in wood. ________________________________ Reflections |39.12.2020, revised Jan 2023| Terza Rima (tercet) Topic: change, world, rose