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Perspective

The poor man walks with weary feet, Counting coins for bread to eat. He knows the price of rice and grain, The rising cost, the daily strain. The rich man sits in halls of gold, Speaking not of prices told. He sees beyond the numbered scale, The worth of time, the weight of tale. A poor man sees a wooden chair, A price tag placed, a cost laid bare. The rich man sees the hands that built, The years of skill, the crafted tilt. A poor man sees a diamond bright, A thing of wealth, a sign of might. The rich man knows its deeper tale, The hands that mined, the sweat so pale. For price is set, but worth is felt, A truth that time has always dealt. The poor man counts, the rich man sees— The gap between is more than fees.
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Honesty is Strange

No secrets rest between us two,  
No tales to twist, no lies to skew.  
In stolen time, in quiet nights,  
Truth flickers under dim-lit lights.  

She tells me all—no shame, no guise,  
No need for soft, well-practiced lies.  
Her love for him, her doubts, her schemes,  
Her whispered hopes, her shattered dreams.  

And I, no better, play my role,  
No claim upon her heart or soul.  
Just two thieves in a stolen dance,  
Bound by truth, not by romance.  

For honesty is strange, you see,  
When love is lost in secrecy.  
What’s his stays his, what’s mine stays mine,  
Yet here, no walls, no need to blind.  

A twisted trust, a bond so true,  
She tells me things he never knew.  
For when you steal, when you deceive,  
You trust the one who dares to thieve.

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