A porcelain life. Someone is sitting still
Right in the midst of it. He’s waiting for the Harmony to come.
He lives this word. He has perfected skill
In putting meanings there. Keeps pressing cheek with tolerable arm.
Goes on with thoughts. He has enriched enough
His sense of harmony. All that he doesn’t have he there sends.
And struggles on. Then having lived a half
His porcelain life he sighs. And changes hands.