post-festive, post-covid, post-flu, almost post-human… the muse seemed to be on extended vacation the suddenly she returns with an ironic riposte…
Happy New Year
Stressed, depressed
And lacking rest
Bathed in a lake
Of disinterest
Post-festive malaise
Besets my days
Through half-formed thoughts
It weaves its ways
Misdirecting my mood
Through an endless maze
Misbegotten are
The games it plays
As it twists my mind
Leaving joy behind
My Self in a
barren land I find
Making the progress
Of the blind
In the spiteful hands
Of the most unkind
Inflicting death
By a thousand cuts
Accepting no ifs
No ands nor buts
Driving me deeper
Into well-worn ruts
I have trodden oft’
In years gone by
A place where it seems
Pointless to try
Where no gentle breeze
Can be heard to sigh
And no bird swoops over
Bows in the sky
Where the only sound
Is the desolate cry
From a fabled cur
A dog so black
That the weight
Of its howl
Bends the burdened back
Stretching one’s nerves
Upon the rack
While lost in the dark
Is times old track
So the dawn of hope
It seems never will crack
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