These are the socks i wear, and where ever the holes they always make their way round to the big toe.
These are the puddles formed by the rain. Everyone avoids even if i don't. It rains, we complain, the council complains.
These are the notes we hit, and blister our fingers. We fret, we threat and for far off keys we stretch.
This is the story we don't know. In a book on our shelves. Un-read, or with corners overturned on first few pages.
These are our childhood toys. Little cars and little bears. With wee doors and wee paws. Tattered and scratched. But we keep them.
Stephen Crane once said, these are our hearts, and they are bitter. But we cherish them, because they are bitter, and because they are our hearts.
chris