A makeshift mountain, their tomb
Stare up, lamenting their plight
In a soundless wail of gloom.
Lost in a forgotten cave,
A plotline burns in neglect.
Yet the embers from its grave
Inspire the poet's respect.
"The authorities agree -
The fittest merit survival.
Thus Darwinian decree
Forbids your revival."
Regret is brushed aside,
Misgivings turned to vapour.
With passion as my guide,
I put my pen to paper.
A cynic's narrative
Imposes reinvention,
Rendering imperative
A break from convention.
Shall villainy be rewarded?
To a credulous simpleton,
A painful fate awarded,
That may not be undone?
A momentary flicker
Of fresh fabrication
Evaporates quicker
Than a poet's dedication.
Another sphere of defeat,
A ball of potential curled,
Is tossed to its hilly retreat
Remains of a godless world.
(Après-post: I know I haven't been very regular with posts or comments lately. I'm sorry, but deadlines have tightened their sinister grip on my throat to a level that makes it impossible to deny their existence like I usually do. But I have seen the error of my ways. Reform is imminent.)
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