Demerits – I

the last few bits of time slip off

into the restless, fleeing crowd,

and leave the watcher there

amid the wash


the eddies of superfluence

and all that excess has allowed

disguised beneath pretense

within panache


but artificial joy is real —

although it be constructed, it

is nonetheless a power, and

a way —


the chaos of conflicting wants,

and wondering – if just a bit –

if we should, maybe, do

the things we say

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