Some hands are like a wasp in an open window that is constantly beating against the upper plated glass. They are continually trying to attain what they already have.
There a hearts like a cobweb covered pad locked door, for nothing ever enters and nothing ever departs.
Some things in life make us question what might have been, but like dead flowers that are lost amongst the weeds of someone else's garden, these answers were never for us to hold.
