The Quickening

No one hears, no one complains No one tears, no one strains Rotting moans of complacency The new world amenity Too soft to contend Too brittle to bend A quickening that aches Too fragile to break Chasms of mistakes Floods in the wake In every passing micro moment, decisions And every misstep, overcrowded prisons Proven in time Your wounds are mine Self perpetuate Another wound to make Paths of life Trampled in scars Proven in time Your wounds are mine Proven in time Your wounds are mine Too soft to contend Too brittle to bend Too fragile to break