Garden of Poetry

They take all that they can take.
But all fragile things were made to break -
A muse not of mortal making,
A colossal being’s undertaking.
Could sadism be the utmost core?
Pain the universal whore?
They all feel so confused,
All abused, so sorely used.
They have seen clearly
What it means to see,
Shudder at eternity,
Wondering if to be or not to be.
They have found no useful tool
To alter the endless rule,
To rend the great hypocrisy,
To end eternal misery.
Helplessly they watch the clock,
And mend their ever-fraying frock.
They want to forget their days,
Think their thoughts in sleepy haze.
They pity the newborn fool,
And loathe the waking of the ghoul.

~ Daniel F Mitchell