When

The need for rainfall
is wasted
on land too tired for tears

the romance of drink
pawned on a drunk
too bent on bitter alchemy
to ferment the pens ink

Its when famine replaces
the harvest of heartache
that poetry can't console
no puddles with handcuffs
or the bankrupt but comforting cliche
of dark clouds
and shiny lining
only
an odd jealousy
of a child pinned
under the front end of a car
feeling how tangible
lifes weight can be

the aesthetics of depression
have as much substance
as an artist with thin skin

the only true sin
is boredom,
and the purgatory of the sinner
is a mad longing
for the lost laughter
found through gnashed teeth