Mind fog

Chide me not it is
not vanity; my words,
my words let me hide.

Shady is the song of
mime; silence warbles at
a fate no longer sure.

Songs that need no words,
refuge of inner ear,
not the world of kings.

Must be mighty fine
when sycophants echo
all the lines you speak.

The mark of Cain is
using private sorrow;
all public gain sold.

Wanton one the tears
you cry of blight and gone-
I have sighed your sigh.

Dying not yet dead,
living not yet alive,
refinement subsides.

Alas,

The superficial that I know
rivals Newton’s ghost
while expertise is under siege.

Ski schuss, ski schuss, ski schuss.
And breathe, breathe, breathe.

11/2017