Missing The Moment
Many are born with the faculty of sight and never see,
that is an art one must learn and polish to keep bright.
We hear, but miss what is really said just out of sight,
again, an art we have nourished not, our loss it be.
What good senses we do not value enough to use well,
leaving us half aware of the world around us so alive.
We are little more than mindless drones around life’s hive,
missing the treasures just beyond ourselves, sad to tell.
We touch, but miss the reason for feelings in the end,
hardly slipping from our narrowing enveloping shell.
Each day we make our world smaller, until its hell,
and there we sit in solitude, our memories to tend.
Lovely poem, full of depth from soul searching.