Something wicked this way comes
and no pricking to forebode it:
half-life of worry to presage,
beating of the foreign drums.
It’s all counting, it’s all trade,
beauty envied but not looked at.
Stuff back, shot-like, into boxes,
all the pretty dreams we made.
Hurting now, distance shattered,
we’re too close to feed our vision.
We lunge, retreat, fall out, regroup,
as if anything mattered…
Related articles
- Skipping cynicism (frugal2free.typepad.com)
- I’ll be thankful when this month is over and I can stop pretending I’m not a cynical, disillusioned bitch (cloudywithachanceofwine.com)
- you are “The cynic” (khabrustan.wordpress.com)
