by Patricia Walsh
It’s strange, to look at your kingdom now
In the same way as called hence
Spinning like a ferris wheel, in control
Never repeating the same journey.
The false greenery tickles the redeemed
Some diction hitting home, a slow puncture
Exhausted coffee cups await disposal
Skimming cards a likely outcome.y
Eating for superiority, cooked to a tee
Thousand welcomes trite with repetition
Express journeys facing the inevitable
Finite comfort a thing to strive for.
Master of the ceremonies that’s in it
Sinking drinks to a brain’s demise
Joy in resurrection for another year
Hearing indulgence over a din.
Quoting one’s own work is a killer
A limited mileage cutting your swathe
An arrogant boredom is completely yours
Mentioning your betters a done thing.
Just in case you come around again
Resurrected, painful, a fleshly reminder
Think of your sorrowing, a piteous act
Seeping through decorum, a price sought.