Ground

by Frank Hubeny

A door appeared. It opened. “See?
The reasoning you thought was sound
fell on your worldview’s slippery ground.”
I’ll tweak another mystery.

That dissonance won’t let me be.
The stars above at least still shine.
While rioters prepare to whine
the world remains about the same
though burnt a bit with needless blame.
I’ll cross that threshold, make it mine.

Motivated by a prompt from Ronovan Hester requiring the rhyme word “ground” be used in a B line of a décima.

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