Slowly Dire
1 min readApr 28, 2020
The mare stands barren with no sire.
The dot diminishes but won’t expire.
The wave crashes but can’t perspire.
The wood burns but won’t set fire.
We climb mountains but reach no higher.
Humanity calls but there’s no buyer.
An exasperated grasp from Heaven’s choir.
The people struggle but don’t tire.
Gasp.
No escape from the mire.
