To each his own and one beside to lay this heavy road,
—For what is trod is not denied but falls beneath the load
And evidence is naught but specks which pain upon the eye;
—This highway fraught with wrecks of bone demands its own supply,
While dogs that bark at rattled panes are tongue-lashed by their owners,
—But in the dark the freighting trains deliver all their orders.
So break a reed to simply prove these weak hands are the stronger
—And stake a claim in Eros’ love for patience can’t wait longer
As visions of bucolic life are swallowed up in war,
—Derisions from a nagging wife for skimping on a chore–
A paradigm shift that pleads its worth with massive aftershock
—The growing rift a subtle hint like ticking of the clock:
Our flame grows dim as wax runs down and seals upon the floor—
—Exiled memoirs, a tax of dreams: two cents and then no more.
So what is worse—to splurge away your money none the wiser,
—Or follow the more frugal urge as penny-pinching miser?
Which begs the question creeping in, unwanted and unbidden:
—Under the mattress of this bed what token dreams lay hidden?