A dirty window to a dirty soul.
Trying to clean with methods of old;
Failing each time, filling with mold.
All lined up to take the poll
To determined if it’s worth the toll.
But even behind the pane,
So fragile and wildly inane,
Lies an evidence unseen
Yet was not as Byzantine
As trying to clean with the methods of old;
Failing each time, and filling with mold.
The King in my own picked up a tome
And scraped as a stone, bringing me home,
Opening the window to a graceful soul.