If it was apparent

Delicacy has lost it’s touch.

Like the city of Atlantis, forgotten.

It is now the age upfront criticism.

And a banner of wants.

 

I’d wish it never left.

Subtility can do wonders.

Like cotton so soft. Nothing bold.

Of warmth to the heart of cold.

 

All things ran fast and sped through time.

I’d wish it paused and glides like in space.

And I’ve been entangled in common rhythm.

Like a dance to that addictive beat,

A habit.

Far off from gone.

 

And words presented like open arms.

They weren’t layered with wit and lost that tint,

That charm.

The wisdom.

Like open ground.

 

And yet we blamed the words.

That hurt us sore.

As horrific as it seems.

We made them so.

 

Delicacy has lost it’s touch.

Oh how I’ve wished it’d never withered and bared the thorns.

~S.H.~

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