In all ways, always, the only constant remains loss.
Reality is a bone-biting bastard
a teeth-clenching contention
a bearing of all in bruxism
Truth is a fickle belief
as cunningly cold as any grief
as trustworthy only as a drunkard’s relief
Cynicism is home to clairvoyance
found dismally too late after the fact
when revisiting words of earlier annoyance
I have been told: at times of chaos
rest, reduce, reorganize, take a breath, make a list
but you’ve set your sails for going away: that’s the gist.
17 September 2017