THE PRETENDERS

The feeling is lost without
a care, no texture for
a master's hand, just small
moths seeking light,

not mindful of the choosing,
placing together like thoughtless
popcorn strings for Christmas
decoration,

attention is refining a blade
to it truest form, broken blades
collect in dark corners when
a master is not true.

If they could they would choose
glitter to shine like the evening sky.