Spit Out the Blue Minor Misery

It’s so easy, isn’t it

To offer up the trite cliche`

To strip the writhing agony

Away

To shake a head or hand in sadness

All whilst wearing cilice round the heart.

The silliness obscured will do its part,

As we few mortificians plod our way

Through dusty streets

Enroute to Calvary.

The Golgotha of Earth has not disarmed.

We humans linger ever

— — weather storms

Find respite in the nitrous gas of lies

We tell ourselves when suicide subsides.

Spit out the total length of misery,

And gambol through the fields — -

Dishonesty

Dependent — for the force

Of facing truth dissembles our remorse

Give me the nitrous oxide — eighty proof -

Or some such sedative

To keep at bay

The fact that sadness wins and rules the day.