its a tragic
reality
that of which
we abode.
i ponder
and wonder…
why is it that fire
rhymes with desire?
why is destruction
as beautiful
as gold?
for it shimmers
so gently
though roars
so bold.

im not sold.
not sold.
my heart,
it grows cold.
whilst i sit here
and witness
this revolting,
pitiful unfitness;
that those “in charge”
possess.

they might as well
just be undressed.
on display
for all to see,
at least then
it would be
slightly funny.
rather than
just depressing.
like the end
of this poem.
even though
the creative
juices keep on…