The world lies small and battered
In the palm of his hands.
And yet, his sorrows are abysmal,
The shadows that hang over his eyes,
Have blinded him.
He has forgotten what beauty is,
He has not seen the look of love,
In a lover's eyes.
All the things acquired and gained
Are but ephemeral.
With a gentle touch of the creator's hand,
All will crumble and turn into ashes.
And maybe then,
He will remember what was once important,
Maybe then he will examine his own heart,
Maybe then,
It wouldn't be too late.
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