Wordrot Transitoria

Sadness is
a madness just
as passionate as anger,
elastic as
euphoria.

I
call it
transitoria,
passive-aggressive
spectrum looking for a retirement
score;

fashionable
fascism creeping
in my forum.

And there’s really no quota for questionable
behaviours,
facial ticks betraying
any favour I’ve built.

My garden of sentences
wilts with
the enthusiam of bloom,
calling flooded plots a
precious boon.

I plotted
a forest over
guilt and was yet
surprised when
vistas I wanted
obstructed formed
valleys in my
peripheral
point of view.

Yeah, sadness is an eyesore,

rhetorical as remorse but
shoehorned in like hindsight, comfortable
pressures on plateaus of feigned perfection,

everyone taking shots in the dark for one glimpse of light.

Sadness my mantra,
but
the source of
all my heights.

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