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…
- 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)