a bowl of dinner.

there isnt much to say
but a salute
to our years of decay.
and I see empires cluttering down
as if the sky rains
of disaster.
a servant
a master.
a maiden
and her children.
the world has painted it`s self
the colors of artificial beauty.
and there is some part of me that
is in disdain of it`s state
of all the dictators
and mediocre creators
of mascaras
I dont suppose it is at all ethical
or moral.
that I feel much more tragic
for the conflicts within.
for my fighting a chocolate bar.
for my lifeless words.
for the lack of fire
I use to believe I had.
it is easy, easier.
to point out what is bad.
then to believe, idiotically
and in dismissal of
it`s blood tinted history
that points at otherwise.
in the possibility of
the wide spread of good.