Woeful Tale made of Satin


There is no accountability for sorrow.

No, gone today, here tomorrow.

An infinite tug of war…not including, just me and you.

Perhaps, a spider and her web.

Nature’s delicate balancing act.

Eight leg’s looming.

Without a care.

Peacefully relinquishing a woeful tale made of satin.

Creatures of habit…tracing trails, always, again and again.

What should we make of pleasures so frail?

Maybe, bittersweet sorrow?

The occasion’s vice we prefer not to borrow.

Imprisoned, voluntary victims, by the side of the house.

Chained to what used to be.

Indignation’s nation…almost impossible to predict, possibly hard to see.


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