The ideals that I create and destroy

Create and destroy me so often

That like a handful pieces of a jigsaw

My some instincts are never recovered,

And in search of some other worldly apricity,

I become the creator of my own autumns.


More than imprisoning me, what else they do?

And smell the very steps I take,

Stronger before the common masses

And feeble before a few good souls.


What are these ideals of mine?

That show me such unjust contrasts.




12 thoughts on “Ideals

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