I hate this poem
its rhyme
its esoteric nature,
its machine like march
from exigency to exoneration,
allayed in spirit
my comforts arrayed
in easy reach
i unleash the beast
just to see it roll along,
hallow this
that which the wizard singes
with his staff
burnt flowers all along the path
the birds song,
and there you are, my companion
gazing into this poem
your eyes wide
at my innocence
after all this time,
the sun hot upon your back
your face red
at my indifference
to the chords one finds
drifting in the shadows
of the blackened flowers,
even as our poem ends sour
and without taste
another bile
to be coughed up in haste
vile. diseased.
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