Sta.sh
Inconsistency
As
I peer from this parapet of pestilence
at
the falling flakes of snow, as they float
generously
to the ground,
I
am left frozen with fear at my predicament.
A
predicament of all working class men
and
women.
There
is a veil all around us.
Paper-thin
and deceptively transparent;
like
an ugly chameleon taunting us.
A
shroud.
Wrapping
up the decadence of death,
hiding
it away.
And
yet we see
but
do not act.
There
lies a lacking of stimuli
in
the condition.
There
is no meaning
nor
purpose.
For
we are ourselves shrouded
in
mystery,
buried
beneath a cataclysm of paper notes and
shaded
eyes.
A
funeral may approach on the horizon
but
regardless we are still dead and buried
in
our own loss.
