Untitled (Everything is Fleeting)

Every winter we become
Vulnerable and wonder why
Ellipses take such pride in
Repeating the same cycle
Year in and year out.
Theology has told us
Hell propels the celestial bodies,
Inciting movement through fear and
Not love. If love were the cause,
Greek poets would still be alive.

Is there a better explanation?
So what if we’re going to die.

Flow like a river and let us
Lay in a raft toward
Ennui. After all it’s inevitable:
Evidenced by the past,
The fire sermon spelling out years
In indistinguishable script, sufficing a
Nod to tell us we are all
Going the same way.

Irony Has No Place in Poetry (This is my poem. It is important)

This is the first line.
It gives you a sense of what is to come
or maybe it doesn't.

This is the second stanza.
It references something
you haven't fucking read.
Did you catch how I said "fuck"?
Wasn't that edgy?

This is the third.
It is brief and cryptic.

This is the middle of the poem;
I have blown my poetic load
and it is all downhill from here.

This is the end.
Wasn't that unexpected,
yet earned?

Crab Apples

My verbs squeek
when I shine them:
a voice fit for a pie.
And for that
I am the King of lack
luster till I try.