Aye, i shall stand in your stead,
Let me whisper softly in your ears
Dreams untold, dreams of those whose heads have become bowls - bowls of clay, earthen, a jumbled mess when
They come crashing down, heavily
Amidst heated grounds, so they're gone, back to their descent. They had
Felt in my hands, like they would
Forever stay put, enclapsed. But
Only for a short while, they were a tethered fugitive, fickle, frail. Just
Like your whispers, unending promises, the lofty dreams that cooconed in the whiteness of the hearts of those that
Have become bowls - the bowls that come to ruin impacted by the flimsiest
Touch - febrile, fledglings of the entity "Fickle"...
Ah! Humane is only apt, for
The bowls are made of clay - clay anastomosed with life, the remains of
A baby, adult - toothless :all alike,
Bound perpetually to the doctrines
What is man and his motives?
Ephemeral, exiguous, unethereal, humane ; doctrines of Fickle.