expression begets naught
but exasperation
forget the time spent
and the arduous effort
one cannot afford
to expend what scant little
extant wherewithal
feeling frayed
and befuddled
as if the internal morass
of mere mulling
would fail to avail us
of endless dishevel
the thought of conveying
one’s thoughts should allay
the cacophonous crepit
of entropy’s sway
but the fact e’er remains
that upon one’s imploring
such pleas only seem
to fall on deaf ears ringing
like gears of gargantuan golems
will grind
in the gloaming
of desolate dawns not sufficed
as it is
one is left to resume the bleak path
of words wasting languid
’til death reaps its wrath
Max, or Not 