Sunday, March 09, 2014

State of Disunion

Do not turn my drama
Into panic
Simply to rob me
Of my self-indulgent fit.
Oh woe for me,
This narcissism is our
Common currency.
Irony is the singular curse
Of the cheaply jaded;
Glib and often meaningless
Like wilted roses
In an empty room.
We have all become
A lonely dancer
On a crowded ballroom floor;
Spastic motions of
Set to the beat
of a drunken drummer.
The commonweal
Broke up online
Abandoned in the rain
Like a rejected suitor
On a tea party afternoon.