Superstition,
Such fiction,
Yet, people believe in the ill-conceived,
Unlike love, they follow something that cannot be seen,
But tell me, does that mean that it is not there,
Or is it simply hiding in plain sight.
They treble in fear at the thought of breaking the rules,
Since when did the shattering of a reflective piece of glass being such bad luck upon a man,
You see this world is all about perspective,
And just because you cannot see our future,
Stops me from having a chance?
So I stop and glance in front of a broken mirror,
Walk under a ladder,
Open an umbrella indoors,
And ask myself,
Maybe you're just superstitious.
YOU ARE READING
The Blurred Lines of Love
PoetryThese words poured out of my being just as difficultly as the third bottle of distilled molasses. It's scorching intensity which lingered within the oesophagus melted even the block of ice residing not in the tumbler but that of the heart. What rem...
