lenticular dismay strikes another beholden viewer, rancor and filed down to the bare nerve endings of another life wasted

land fill in the blanks of trash heaped to overflowing prose into the aether that only seems to grow between us

whispered words of wonder, whimsy, weighted with wistfully worrisome writs

it’s all a game, with no winners, no point, no ending, just the constant pulling farther from finish in an endless cycle of false hopes and unfettered lies

baseless belief in better beginning, embellished eagerly, blatant lies used to entangle the fool into a cycle of hope unfulfilled, emptying the vessel until all that remains is the corpse of failure