The silhouette still hides the soul.
The target can blind you
To the meaning of the goal.
And the missing pieces make you forget
How complete is your imperfect whole.
Though you may shatter, curse yourself
With seven years of bad luck
Pick yourself up. Ask for a little help.
Remember riches are weighed
In more than just their value as wealth.
All blessings glitter, not only silver and gold.
What is the day, without the night.
What is the warmth, without some cold.
What is the smile if not watered by a single tear.
What am I if separated from this troubled soul.
© 2019 | Frank Regan, All rights reserved.