It’s Like That
Like waves that break before they meet the shore,
And fruit that’s plucked before the ripening;
Like sonnet on iambic feet before
It finds a body clear thought may bring;
Like baking what’s inadequately kneaded,
And tea that’s poured before the brewing’s done;
Like junk a certain president has tweeted,
And clothes pulled off the line still needing sun;
Like words divorced of all humility
Adorning an apologetic breath,
And souls that think they know infinity
Before they even cross the bridge of death.
I think it is a bit like all of that:
Insipid, dried up, bodiless and flat.