Wisteria
Fuck you.
That’s all I could muster.
This on a cold July day
Icicles dripping from a seldom-used
Orifice?
Is that what you thought?
No, this is no song of anger,
No hymn to those still singing.
Me? Ha!
No, no.
I sing to those who have no voice,
Those whose rasps and rattles stir
The aging pot.
You think to cause perhaps a whisper?
Silly thing you must be, yet.
I will indulge your fantasy,
Though then you must indulge mine.
I see a vast empire studded,
A cat with stones alight and awry.
Horses and a conqueror, a fury,
A stay, a wait, a light, a death.
The stones mean nothing,
They never did.
You lost. Sorry.
The wheel turns without end. Whether you, or I become its beneficiaries is entirely due to chance. There can be no certainty in this game, you know. The more we believe, the less we have in tow.
Destructive Anachronism 