A rummage of grey clouds smother on high,
threatening dark and dreary.
Boredom fidgets indoors.
pacing carpets weary.

A mottle of melancholy dawdles,
while amble billows shift.
Tedium turns over,
waking the sleeping drift.

Google eyes yawn, retired in fatigue,
weighed by the moribund void.
The dull of stimuli
arrests the cushions toyed.

The clock thumps away the daylight hours,
with the seconds heavy tick.
Striking every hour
to jerk the mosey quick.

Caught within the crushing grip of grieving,
the preacher told me
“God takes and gives;
it isn’t ours to judge or question.”
Yet when I turned away,
accepting of his creed,
Cernunos took my hand
and tugged me back around
to warming sunrise,
his tails wrapped around my grief,
to whisper echoing,
“Do you wish eternal sadness,
or the spending
of your lifetime
celebrating hers?”

And sometimes I wonder
If my words are worth something
More than just phrases
Falling out of my mouth
Curled all around
In a bundle of nothingness
Waiting for someone
To figure them out
And sometimes I wonder
If this is all worth it
Just to end up lying
6 feet under ground
A life full of lies
To make others feel better
Without ever worrying
If you feel better yourself
So look in my eyes
And call me a cynic
But I know better
Than to take any offense

That corona garland, worn by few
may be brandished by those untainted

Who by some great deed, in memory sewn
thus impressed an angry god,
were then received as canon

Years have passed, and those who are left
to right the skewed halos, burnished above the pews

Grow fewer, and fainter, air deprived inside
the stone facade, that must persist

The brocade of landscape, pastoral, longed for green,
reminiscent: but drying to brown outside