Every Sorrow & Joy Imaginable

This Earth plays artful music from sorrow to joy sure, we-are-but instruments to be played. Hark! Does not the Songbird sing sweet, never coy- though ear-piercingly can squawk a good masquerade in milk & honey, her beauty is unquestionable. Such desert roses are as prevalent as weeds violets with bloodied thorns, our days disreputable torn apart by the ever-changing wind that cleaves like a suckling child who is now cruelly weaned. Flung every which way their canvases stretched- out, framed & stapled, life-is-such a feigned- at death's embrace, no more will it be wretched except for the night of the nightingales' last song to his lover, in answer to all her joys & sorrows that came never having any more night-long terrors the cosmos—bring them no new tomorrows.