Mediocrity

Morning dew collects on the grass

too heavy to soar and too light to trickle

unlike the tears that gloss her face

dwindling of heat and patience.

And through the frames of another

I accept my salary of weekends and butter;

face buried in bread made by a baker

too proud of his occupation to notice

time rotting away, leaving behind bones and dreams

belonging to nobody.

You can take away the soul of a man

to light the future of civilization

On each new layer, run against the tread

and you may catch a glimpse

of the dimness left behind.