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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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late-night confessions

How do you go back to passing by,  
eyes that once held echoes of late-night confessions,  
laughter tangled between fingertips,  
whispers that softened the sharpest silences?  

How do you unwrite a name carved deep,  
unlearn the warmth of a voice in the dark,  
forget the way their presence  
once fit into the quiet spaces of your life?  

Do you nod politely, as if your hands  
never mapped each other's scars?  
Do you smile, as if your hearts  
never spoke in unguarded verses?  

Perhaps you walk away,  
not with anger, not with regret,  
but with the weight of knowing—  
some souls are meant to touch,  
then turn back to shadows.

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