You gawk and call it madness,
a sickness that afflicts
the weak of mind,
the poor, the kind;
by gods, you’re such a prick.
You practice looking sideways,
avoiding the fool’s eyes:
a damning mirror,
where you see clearer
your own decay and sad demise.
You laugh and offer insult,
never a helping hand.
Why bother trying?
If purged by dying,
so much improved is noble man.
You ferment malice with no reason;
no one is truly mad.
What’s real takes practice,
beyond mere praxis,
what’s done and been had.
Your own mind wavers
from sane to madness:
one minute’s level,
the next, the Devil.
A shallow life of mostly sadness.
6 APR 2017
