Noah Piet Poet Rhyme

Grief Turned Outwards

Urgent intentions will not be virtuous enough;
To mention, of the better, which path is it paved from?

Hell purges etchings of where your silhouette set drops. 
Like Cloisonné flattened edgeways, beauty finds a brush.

You can do what's right as long as it can still be done,
But from where the comfort derives weighs more than the sun.

Strip your palms and find the bones, actions can't change the blood.
Rid the dawn of the fight you hope, where passions won;

Self-designation tropes mimic, even lack thereof.

We do all that we can do, but whose posture becomes

the fare, collateral damage we forget to fund?

Inwards piecing shape to form what cannot be undone, 
whether from what you see or say, grievance follows us

Contort wilds towards tending the tame, normal but not;

We are not of what we are, but of what we become.

So however we see ourselves; Image falsely knots.

We can't know of tomorrow but that's where we are from.

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