I weighed the world in heavy hoards.
Counting the mass but missing the mark.
I prized the gross and lost the grace.
Yet heavy hands hold hollow stones.
The rot must ruin to raise the root.
I pitched a tent in camps of pride.
Arming the right to wrong the rest.
A loud defense is deaf and dense.
But brittle iron shatters cold.
The bending branch survives the blow.
I boxed the boundless in a creed.
Taming the text to trap the truth.
A settled mind is sealed and blind.
The altar cracks to let the light.
The forge must melt to mend the flaw.
I locked my love behind a wall.
Keeping a ledger of my loss.
But guarded forts are starving floors.
The safest shell becomes a skull.
We shed the skin to stretch the soul.
The fool is full and finished now.
The thinker thrives on what is flawed.
We yield to mend.
We bow to grow.
The sharpest mind expects the dent.
We must be wrong to reason right.
