Just a Bagatelle

If it lasts it must be good or is it just a bagatelle? Mountain tops inspiring cryptic lines that vanish in some moth infested haze, Boulevards beloved of budding artists whose mocha fueled creations stray off point, Mother Earth obsessives as they press their rosy vision into silver clay mosaics, tune smiths in a dither over windy forest musings without rhyme, the rising tide of booker listed penmen cramped by their own inflated style, heady tales that stretch across horizons as muggy moonlight antics tapered off, bag and baggage endlessly recycled and repackaged, needing to be told or so we’re told