muse,
what festivities drive days so quickly to years
as much as we might try to cow the seconds
your enigmatic era lingers pregnant with possibility
while all of my certainties are religiously squandered
the grand sadness tinted now perceived as inhuman
experiences have no taste for secrets only answers
they insist squandered vigor leads to desperation
and old parables sentimentality for human life
as though vigor ever could be squandered
as though human life needed stories
to be tender and sad
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