A Miserable Rhyme
This vastness how it frees the soul. The open plains and seas, carried by a beautiful breeze. One should weep at such beauty. But we are often taken by our own pity. Our eyes shut to what we should truly see.
We bear the ability, to be free, which may be a burden that breaks the mind with ease. If not taken for what we should be. Often buried to flee, beneath the shallow graves of our misery. But mountains scrap the skies, oceans hugs the shore but neither holds envy.
Yet we see another, and our eyes skew so angry, so cocky. For another has what we think is our bounty. And instead of reaching, gaining what we wish with hard work and glee. We tilt the bottle and pour ourselves some brandy. Muddling our hearts. Creating our vision to be cloudy.
Shrouding our soul till our body becomes too heavy. We fall to dark empty allies, searching for bitter pieces we can blame. Building an army of boozy pleads in an explosion of our ruins, our debris. And so we feel incomplete, our breasts held crudely by our dizzy thoughts.
And so we look no further than our dusty coughs. Our throats coated in rot, drafty be the lungs. Hung with no reason to breathe but to be. Giving ourselves a sense of foolish duty, dragging our feet through the filthy, on our knees.
Plagued we be by the easy the crumbling frenzy of the moody. Never decisive but always blaming. Wasting away as if one shall never feel pretty. Withering to the pervy cusp of lust, losing sight of what means the most. Pushy, queasy becomes the gut.
Forlorn in love of self, portly in grub. Feasting on suffering as if it is parsley. Prepping no psyche to be lovely, but ugly. Praising the rusty faces of the scaly, slithering with tongues of shady theory. Thickly becomes the eyes, covered in stone, thinly stretching the soul. Forgotten and old, yet young, walking as if cold.
Death be at the throat, thirsty for curvy, twisty, windy roads that lead to the unknown. But left with no look, no touch, for the feet feel miserable. Complain and give reason to be thorny. Prickly and needy, but none can come close.
The streets open, and hope glows, but ours heart be low. Acutely objective of what beauty one tries to show. And so we see yourself as casualties of everything but truthfully nothing. So let fall the earthly beauties and let be miserable, if one shall not leave the lousy.
What do you take of this, what did you feel and think?
Is there anything more human than reading? A Man's Traveled Heart
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