Whether a show of thought
Or a jigsaw of pen
Its power is brought
By the forethought of men.
To reach up above
And escape all the lies
That brings us to love
The tales from the wise.
It's not to believe
In every word read
But to think and to grieve
Of hearts which have bled.
Innocence has died
The moment we fade
Into people who hide
From the world we have made.
And the peace in our hearts
Is not far to find
It's in pieces and parts
Of our souls and our minds.
So that's why we write
And we read about things.
To give us insight
To the pain that life brings.

Jennifer Hutchison