moribund

“The Path Of Least Resistance Is Littered With The Corpses
Of The Bored To Death."—Dean Cavanagh

a tree whose leaves are fallen—not in autumn,
whose roots drink no more nectar from the soil,
whose limbs attract no chirpy birds with awesome
flute music, as they nibble at the spoil.

a stream whose mountain pulse has ceased her throbbing,
whose river finds no merriment en route,
whose stagnant flow relieves not earth’s vain sobbing,
where waterfalls have lost their parachute.

a man whose hopes pine on the floor beside him,
whose smiles have morphed into a morbid frown,
whose will to live makes dying an anonym
for hugging close the earth that pulls him down.

a song whose cadences abort conclusions,
whose melodies are mournful as the seas,
whose counterpoints thirst for harmonisations,
cacophony despoiling every breeze.

© Copyright 2023 August 28
by Clyve A. Bowen♫