A poem is the funeral pyre bright,
Of pulsations once exhumed from the deep...

known quantity bereft of quality;
a name of little beyond its letters...

Farther onward, always skyward;
high above, hurtling ever hard...

Entering through resplendent gates,
to where countless dead seek final rest...

wreathe of words sprout upon doorstep bed
beneath a far-looking moon, whisper to ear...

at that tender age when one still believed
openly bleeding wounds make for devotion...

sitting here staring at that blinkin' cursor
having nothing other than that buzzing...

for many a thought have now gone astray
once boisterous clacking keys now grey...

ever-present trolling social media
ever pressing searing avatar...

flaw bearing retinue
fore bearing revenue...

Prick up your dulled ears, be brave;
Hear the dislodged dirt flying...

it's quite sad, so sad
when afterthoughts don't count...