SAD but DRY
Wait taunt and rage about the endless pathways
damned toward mires of quicksand that bubble and spurt!
Desolate bog, a plaintive illusion
intrudes the hopeless woeful ones pale dying dream.
Yet the whim lives pining
yearning for a past love to emerge
though it may hurt, only fantasy can ever tire.
Dark naked stage, a showcase elusive
Includes the highbrowed chosen ones
morbid and dull concrete days.
Yet incense keeps on burning
as two white doves tails diverge,
smoothly dividing, though a sweet fallacy.
A true but pale fog hangs over the swamplands.
Stiff steel-gray clouds keep breathing of trouble and pain.
Twisted branches float without direction
bobbing obtrusive firebrands.
Stale inert impotent gas
rises possessed with ironic traits.
Infinite fruitless bait complements tragic humor.
A motionless dampened urge never results in a teardrop.
A ghost’s cold wrath!
Lifeless churning, the cycle remains
though its percussion is submerged.
Meaningless monologue centers upon a forgotten gate
that is constantly and eternally engaged.