There’s a sort of perverse pleasure
In the evanescence of a winter earned
After being estranged from a fecundant summer
The sunlit hours of blissful days
Fading to the dismal hues
That lurk beneath a blinking Eutopia
To allude to the fact that all you’ve done
Is nothing more than your brood’s food
Prosaic poseurs pilfering their prior pastimes’ salvage
Practitioners of practical-pot-prosperity piously puffing away
To be cascaded by cumbersome encounters
With congenial dust-mite-muses in their paradise
Inspiration of fermintation brought about by age
Creating
Carmalized thoughts that cling to the back
Of your throat like turpentine kisses
Making your words blend together like wet paint
Eating away at your skull until they enter the lobotomy zone
…Meanwhile…
Complacent composeur is kept in stifling silence
Shining light upon blasphemies cherished by dogmatic drones
The chill of finally belonging finding home in your bones
Atavistic urges avidly attempting to re-animate yester-years aspirations
The malignant malinoma of mis-spent masturbation, a Magnanimous refuse from malicously mutilating malevolence
Your highschool useless- heart
Passed-out at the foot of your bed
Hibernating the bleak days away in a fleece cocoon
Waiting to be ressurected by the onslaught of Spring
To be told by the blossoms’ whispers she’s better off without you
…Meanwhile…
You lye awake wondering when the stars are going to die
Attempting to recipricate yesterdays excuses
to make it to tommorrow