Once upon a time,
there was bullshit in the air,
folks thought they knew,
that things had been ordained,
and that decisions would be claimed,
applied to situations everywhere,
until the very day,
when voices spoke,
and it was clear to all
that there was only air, the heated kind,
and it would rise,
by morning they would be okay.
They then dispensed with toys,
and dances 'round the tables to impress,
she' wanted to pursue and to endure,
yet there was naught but such a tragedy, no less.
He walked then, to be free of it,
each step a stab of pain into his heart,
he shed his soul then and his still remaining wit,
and the survivors called it harmony of art.
Ahh how we must learn to take it all,giving as good in return. Good poem counts!! Philip