Of Angels Like Politicians

I shout, I pout,
I pace about the house.
But once in many years I walk the woods.
I breathe, and make glance, or two;
what little time spent in the yard.

Alone,
as if to say I should
be so weary or dreary,
frightened or sad,
depressed or depressing,
hardly heard, or hard of hearing.

And for shame, my mere appearing.

I wish I may,
I wish I might;
here, sulking forever,
so low, as to call it ‘plight.’

So “bright,”
what a future told,
expected, said, rhymed and rolled,
— but like mold,
it ages but never gets old.

Futurelessness.
Now that’s a word.
Come
a want of a life,
ever, left there like a turd.

Yeah, “free as a bird.”

Oh, you can pray,
or try as you plead, and scream,
each day,
fall, realizing
you’re punching a bag of hay.

How far things stray,
the predictions, they swell, I swell;
none so whole, none forward.
No, no, they don’t go so well.

But life goes on,
yet some still dwell;
of angels like politicians,
the whole world goes to hell.

——————————
Can you hear me now?  No.  Of course, not.

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