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.

The second poem I contributed for the second week of the 'May' competition over at PoetsPub

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