Consequence is empty.
A blank, soul-less thing, without care,
without definition.

The sum of your grief may be long,
or brief,
and you might say you lost it,
but someone else may profit.

The waste you make while you are cleaning,
may give someone else new meaning.

So watch carefully what you throw away,
you may want that broken thing someday.
Perhaps it’ll look differently,
When you learn to see.

Everyone always knows what they ever wanted,
once they lost it.

You’ll tear your fingers to bloody claws,
digging through that dump, trust me.
I could wring my dripping hands a thousand times,
and it still wouldn’t stop you, if you felt it true.

Tame not the shrew,
instead discipline you,
or end up alone,
hands crumbling bone.