A Sonnet For Cynics

Ceramic pots of orchids tumble from the 24th floor and grow as they fall as we all do through the air within fractions of time hoping for something more never clear about the history of all that came before Or the point where the future starts and the past ends odd speculations abound from every celebrated bore representing finer institutions of like-minded friends all silent on the psychology in the redundancy of trends Nightly injections and plugs of dark synthetic hair disguise the cold vacuous eyes of those who rarely care the esoteric intellects who no longer feel but are sure loss of beauty in the world is the mea culpa of the poor There will always be muddy rivers surging into open seas always eager lovers and politicians down on bended knees