This
is the winter of my discontent
Even
if it’s no longer officially winter
And
discontent is overrated
And
I think the meteorologist Betsy Kling has had her eyes done
For
some reason I take great offense
To
those who have had work done
Like
they can’t simply leave well enough alone
Just
look at Barbara Boxer the junior United States Senator from California
And
I know I’ll be attacked for making disparaging comments about a woman’s looks
But
that’s the point this isn’t about anyone’s looks, but instead about going under
the knife all on account of what vanity because we need to look younger even if
we lose our very essence in the process
And
this winter that is no longer a winter breaks all around me like a gang of
super predators and I’m not talking black, white or brown, but instead about my
own fears and self-doubts building up inside of me to the point where there’s
no more returning and Lot’s wife is a distant memory and I’m no longer
concerned with what’s in the freezer uneaten and unwilling to thaw out
This
is the winter of my conflagration
Where
everything burns internally like there is no tomorrow
And
that’s because there isn’t if you simply wipe your ass with the Farmer’s
Almanac
And
I’m just about through because this poem is all over the map and it’s time my dark
night of the soul was tucked into bed and my shivering timbers were shot in the
head
Charles Cicirella
4/18/16
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