No wink, no nod, no wry retort
nor agony exquisite
to spur us into diatribes
and capers in the harlequin
soliciting the slightest smile
perhaps a little pat
from angels fallen and aloft
whose beauty shines
in frequencies that make us ache
oh what a sad existence ...
no. not even sad
for sadness hints
it is a thread
a trail of crumbs
leading to that seething cauldron
in which we gladly bathe, submerge
inhale in hopes of glance
or even eye-roll
Instead a blessed even ness
continuum of gray
not empty but just full enough
to keep the wants at bay
to feed a blissful ignorance
a numbness of the soul
Inspired by one of RC deWinter's Midnight Poetry offerings
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