o humble hindrance to society!—
that I posed you near-divine: forgiveness
accounts for what in you I don’t see—
yet! pray, I may, true, alive, forget less.
those images that false paint, tainting you
breed the ideal that in blooming we thrive;
but what is plucked, cut, and torn out of view
and still lays claim to what we contrive?
or is it so just what we see may be
we tear a moment born out of our chests—
though won’t the seeds of life live ever-free,
as one forms another, an other bests.
so poor is he then with cut provision,
unless he extols the truth of vision.