an ode
to the woeful ordinaries
nary a strive beyond immediate
strife,
or a thought further
than the next
instant
satisfaction,
woe, they might be
if only knowing
were a skill set
perceived,
yet,
instead and perhaps,
in spite,
come look at the blight of
bliss
such simple synaptic circumstances
incurs, and how
something shy of envy
forms,
were a certain comparison of
consciousness to
occur,
you know, with
as all these thinkings
and inking,
further away may be
resulting in 
all that trying to
get closer,
to
some truth,
grasping
ever out of reach
in all the vast
beyondness.
either which way, I
worry,
while they do
not-

so furrowed
at the sight of
my own
condemnations,
while
the idiots, all
triumphant, go on,
so void of melody and
scheme.