Painfully pleading for a past more pleasant
than this tearful torrent of tactless torture,
my soul seeks the sweet serenity of sorrow.
Losing loss is a long lasting letter of love
refusing to be re-read, but rather remembered
in an imagined illusion of illuminated ignorance instead
of the defined and daily dealings in which we dwell.
My meandering and mangy metanarrative masters the
existence eked out every eternity
by my bothersome and bastardly boredom.
He will die, but let's hope it's not today.