Surge


As beauty baths the day,
Breathes betterment’s rays
Under that sun for hay
With will, we are our ways.

Men: must sin -
Must lose/must win.
So, for our next of kin,
We waste away our sweaty skin.

This gift of grief
is bitter brief,
does not break belief
neither does it chair a chief.

We make waves
digging our graves,
we make paves
at times it craves.

Many people are so lazy,
that they cannot catch crazy
to dig their graves. AMAZE!
Family feuds, just a maze.

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