Whittled to waste,

perfect ion of taste,

hold tightly wind blaring haste,

conceal parts still inaptly chaste,

splice wounded scars of resilient paste;

Careful of whom arms embrace,

world bares no shame of evil traits,

once, perhaps twice sheered escapes;

Life has but cruel insensitive ways,

stay upon the road you race,

count not the days,

for destination resembles not what envisions you prayed.