glaring, when eyes spit
into the air – a cold rain
jacket worn on the shoulders
of an angry stare
written by Tiny Fawns for daily prompt: glaring
roll up and smoke your words.
puff them out in a cloud around others,
you’re feeling higher, questioning why they
even bother – but the minds, the brains –
are ladders constantly being built, stretching
their heads into the skies – right when you
think you’ve risen and claimed the intellectual throne,
the others will resurface, rise, taking your crown,
writing their own creeds with your bones.
the battle for wisdom cannot be won by anyone
already claiming foolishly to be wise