Lo, hail and hark.

Adept for dire, depths of misery,

disappointed in good measure;
measuring virtues, precarious, fair,
happiness, like prescribed astute jars—

(loneliness is a killer, or so I’ve heard);

grey words, bland news and boredom,
thick as gruel, as cruel, as tepid—
I map futures like proud cartographers,
smiling through miscalculations;

I wait for plans, platonic platitudes,
gracious as saved servants, all ego;
lo, hail and hark, in faint awe, unsure,
of wanting more (a selfish whore)

and deserving, even night-ward,
when the moon, low, snickers, gleaming.