The Thick of It: Poetry

The forsaken muse
has returned,
etching tidings of
foreboding news
where thoughts coalesce
into gravel
with all of its
non-subtle hues

Is it too much
in the grand scheme
to have peace,
or state that what
you're wishing for
is some ultimate release
from the weight of
every expectation
and the noose
of reputation
among wanderers whose
natterings do not ever cease?

Can you retrain
a fragile brain
from marching
in carbon-copy footprints
of a currency disdained,
for which the very fabric
of our begins has been slain,
so that we are left
not just inept,
also secluded and bereft,
fingers tinted green
from the monetary stain
that is hardly worth
the price of our stagnation
or our strain

But I'm remiss
I've forgotten sins like this
where I gaze upon the page
enraged with frustration's kiss
There is no singular bliss
in the stinging, hallow wisp
of who you are coming apart
like a tumultuous eclipse

And if my heart could beat
out its last moments sweet
on the vibe of the electronic hive
of minds that meet,
dance and greet,
on a global mechanism alive
with the synchronic synapses
of our fondest jive

Here, at last,
the thick of it
Muck of dire straits
we delve into and clasp
like soldiers called to war
a billion years too late...

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