The Quickening

No one hears, no one complains
No one tears, no one strains
Rotting moans of complacency
The new world amenity

Too soft to contend
Too brittle to bend
A quickening that aches
Too fragile to break
Chasms of mistakes
Floods in the wake

In every passing micro moment, decisions
And every misstep, overcrowded prisons
Proven in time
Your wounds are mine

Self perpetuate
Another wound to make
Paths of life
Trampled in scars

Proven in time
Your wounds are mine
Proven in time
Your wounds are mine

Too soft to contend
Too brittle to bend
Too fragile to break