Just the damp, dark blobs splattered,
The sinuous moods of the manic man
Commonplace, commonsense notes notwithstanding,
Plan B is yet another futile plan.
Decked in green like nothing I've seen,
The parade of the greedy jealous feet.
Forfeited the dulcet for the cacophony,
City over the bucolic street.
The mildew mold of mediocrity molds,
The skin is scratchy paper.
On which the items get smudged,
The palimpsest of failures shifted order.
When rainbows are wrong, strength is not strong,
The stress is on asymmetrical stressful things.
It's just the shriveled horizon,
Bendy fancy scruples that no longer sting.
Of what hope sustains the hollowed orbits,
The lantern cackle sputtering kerosene oil.
The hope-like shadows loom larger,
Lampoon menacingly on the wall.
It's hard to recover from the consumption,
Of lost faith in the illusion of life.
The depression melts what gossamer makeup,
Goes by that name for the everyday strife.
There's grief, and it's not brief.
And the time seems to step into a black hole.
It's just me, and the miseries I can see,
That torments my sleep-lost soul.
Fictions galore, there's a purpose and more,
But the stretch can be overused war.
An ape we are, for good or for worse,
Only a tiny step out in this evolution so far.
A world is wise when it can learn,
But ours is kept slippery to stay in the past.
If we don't realize there's no god, no ghost, no one but us,
We'll be crumbling, stumbling, disappearing fast.
Page by page, the stories of age,
The narrative is incarcerated in gloom.
The spools of tidy threads that stitch are dead.
Just a long hall of past echoes—more darkness and doom.
