Apathy

These joys blaze, with a distant residue A fringe of false, like a tale-tale stain Or blight of disease, still only a blemish Through which light can trickle, Enough to amaze. These passions flare, like a sunlit virus Lights up a wandering world of mold, Like the dead spoil days, with only their shadow And the way pain plods, While warmth grows cold. The old grow older, just like a story Grows stale with retelling, too many times And you never realize how tiresome it's getting, Till you've heard it too often- It takes just one time.