Their Loss

Their Loss

I am on the verge of a required suffering

A looming abstention of good intention

Like mixing mild with madness

Where all fools gladly

Slip their tongues together

On a meandering mat

Matted with meaning

Wondering why everyone is screaming

The same thing about themselves

While flying magic carpets

Filled with dogs and brats

Whose cacophony float

Sounds above all

For the Hell of it

With a bleating of Bats

I would drink coffee but it now burns my stomach

Churning toward death

Routine bleeds itself into the day

I can't be myself so imitate others

Improving on their unaware dynamic

Until they envy me

Until their last breath

This makes me superior to them

In their egotistical opinion

Still, go for it I say

At some point it's the end of the day

As they say

Which is when I can come out to play

With myself relief

While mourning their loss

On my good grief