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Praise of Folly
To the man who left to fight--
weary and downtrodden,
hobbling home in the mud,
bloodshot eyes pleading for escape.
To the girl who brandishes her pencil
each and every moment--
sketching each vision in her mind
Wanting, Wishing,
needing to encompass the world.
To the child that sits lonely in a forgotten house,
praying for that old, beloved feeling to return--
with new arms , embraces, and kind eyes:
A new family that will never come.
To the poor boy with a voice echoing
down subway tunnels,
sweet melodies reaching places
that nobody seems to care about.
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