The mindless serenity of unsatisfying indulgence
and the haughty want that pretends to be the origin of all art.
Call it a love song, the birds chirping
screaming in the morning wings beating claws scraping
a brief burst of violence called a moment of passion.
And life does what life does and dissipates heat
with intelligence prone to fits of death dumb and blindness
from the searing flash of a rainbow of feathers.
In pure isolation I listen to music and muse
that muses gave their stamp of approval
to this madness, this hunger,
this petulant whining.
And the birds prattle on and the years prattle too
and I sit perfectly still and do my job to promote entropy
and try to prevent memories from intruding on angst.
This will fail too.
I won’t invokes names but I will recall images
and images, thank god, can’t be put into words.
But one can’t help but wonder if this is loneliness or worse.
And one must hope
that their love song
is something more
than a failure to reproduce.