Happiness, is a transient,
seldom it pass my way.
Existing for nothing,
but a moment;
in short guilty stay,
a fleeting sensation
devoid of lasting worth.
Reserved for those of selfish mirth,
and selfish dare;
these hordes who hoard their precious care.
–For if any spirit suffer,
no matter their outerwear–
whether skin, fur, or feather,
be it scale, hair, or leather
pain is pain,
suffering is suffering,
it’s all the same!
And happiness is nothing
but shallow mind game.
My body awakes from the sun’s rays broke free of the mountain, no longer held back by the jagged frosty peaks. Light is now free. Free to shine in the valley where twilight shadows give way to another well welcomed summer day.
The newborn morn ignites my soul, and peacefully so, with an explosion of perfumed air, of color laid bare, of brilliance never grown old.
From the window I see, a multitude of flowers in the meadow there be; an array of shades and shapes, some tall some low, spreading their soft and dainty pedals open to love’s embrace; bees buzz eager with lustful grace.
A hushed breeze fluffs a flowing wave across the soft-spoken field of amber grain.
To the north, cornflower dots the rolling lea like numbers on a puzzle.
And at the brook I see, far off and yonder be, several deer; a buck, three doe, a fawn near a tree, a refreshing drink they steal from the mountain’s babbling meander.
Serenity, by Infinity, caught in the cross-hairs of extremity:
In the village, the dirty little village not so very far away . . . forsooth, another tale there play.
In line they stand, the stench of death weighs heavy at hand.
Nervous they tromp, snorting nose to flicking tail, a slow travail.
And with each step lumbered, closing closer to fate encumbered
Where there . . .
In the abattoir, blood flows a river.
In the abattoir, agony hangs thick as a mourning morning mountain fog.
In the abattoir, air reeks with stifling recourse.
In the abattoir, fluorescent bulbs burn bright, bearing no respite.
In the abattoir . . .
Happiness . . .
is an abandoned Ferris wheel,
standing alone in a field of gray,
where children once play.
For as long as man’s heart pump cold
through the veins of his darkened soul
Happiness, will be my nemesis.