Infected With Avarice

Portended: the weak-kneed amongst us—we savage our lips—we stage a speech—we pledge:

 

“Trivial in nature: the art of our pursuit

To happiness, to God, to after-thoughts”

We, brood,

—So soon?

So sorry you learned?

 

I, a harlot’s mouth—of shrewd—as blue of hue: The hours come pre-wasted—never used

Large scale-models of her eyes, weeping fake-oceans of actions—never moving

From seat’s back: her station, we had nations before us, clasped—fingers snapped, bent low,

Like sticks under shoe, under a god we knew: the better gods of our bitter natures—with glue,

For nothing, the day left of sweet sorrows, too long, in the sun—a proper change, all our worries,

Soon, left to waste.

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