Thermodynamics

A Poem by QuietSeer

Like boiling water,
we all have our place.
To go against the grain,
means begging to be slain.

How ironic our pillars,
are the ones to carry all.
When the peak, infact,
is the one to see it all.

The poor remain poor,
and the rich remain rich.
For the people play their part,
as the heat will reach its peak.

The coldest of the cold,
will wither in the sand.
The hottest of the hot,
will bask in total bliss.

But joy comes to the cold,
and solitude to hot.
For no amount of curency,
can compensate for love.

Like boiling water,
we all have out place.
To go against the grain,
means begging to be slain.