She cries a bit too little,
I feel a bit too late.
I'll chalk it up to just bad luck,
for no belief in fate.
If she weren't born of pretty,
and I weren't born of sin.
I stumble pass her ugliness,
to never sin again.
In heat between the liars,
that lights our way to hell.
I know of a but a single fate,
that only death will tell.
This right of wrong,
upon my slate.
She cries a bit too little,
I feel and too late...
saint cynosure ( Ken Bennight )
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/i-dont-know-what/
