Runcible Spoon

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The Poem Speaks


I am not a tragic poem--

just one without a sense of happiness,

in a world running out of room


for simple ennui in quiet homes

now occupied by jarring wealthiness

that no one writes a poem


about unless it tells how one may come

to such a state of careless bliss.

These are somber words-- no room


for explanation or for whom

the bell will toll next , I guess

the best of times are here, with poems


serious and deep erased by some

who think that sorrow has no place,

that positivity fills rooms,


temporary till the tomb--

paralysis with snuffing space,

too cramped to write the least bit tragic poem

in a world running out of room.