To yearn for reason,

Womb kept,

A wish not granted,

Torn ajar for what’s why.

Year’s Mountains in the climbing,

Destiny engraved with such prehistoric permanence,

To preferences of red rose petals,

Over those of gold,

Riches to the mind of the beholder,

Never in relevance to thy neighbor.

Caregivers,

Make,

Mold,

Bake clay to a solid eternity.

An unforgiving shadow,

Preponderance of the dish set,

Big plate platters and small cracked bowls,

Closely stack and layered,

Screech serenades,

Shelf Clatter.

For if the silver spoon drapes upon,

And the night soil be fed with shovels,

May crannied porcelain isolate.

Thrown entirely a gone,

Reasons,

Separate but equal,

Why must be lovely.