Poet

There once was a wannabe poet who walked to the edge of the world in an attempt to understand.

“Hark,” they’d say, pointing to great bombs falling into pits of hellfire, “but another tragedy.”

Nothing would be said of the wrath, the great destruction befallen the innocent. Whitewashed, added to the pile of piles, that never ending waterfall of tragedy. But they would carry on, regardless the farces, only to point to another great miscarriage of good intention.

“Hark,” they’d say, “but another tragedy.”

Nothing would be said of the greed, the great oppression befallen the innocent. Just another coin added to that pile of piles, nary but a flightless canary. And then they would carry on, destitute and down on luck, through sights unseen with a sad glean.

“Hark,” they’d say, pointing to behemoths growing with each slobbering bite, “but another tragedy.”

Nothing would be said of the gluttony, the great disease befallen the innocent. The pile of piles would grow in refuse, scraps barely able to disabuse. But then they would carry on, malnourished and discouraged, only to point to another malaise of the soul.

“Hark,” they’d say, “but another tragedy.”

Nothing would be said of the lust, the great exploitation befallen the unwary. Just another carnal pleasure atop the pile of piles, only seen from the shoes of the lonely. And then they would carry on, yearning and abused, past scene better unseen.

“Hark,” they’d say, pointing to king upon opulent throne, “but another tragedy.”

Nothing would be said of the pride, the great corruption befallen the innocent. The pile of piles would grow by reputation, naught but the fixation on inflation. But then they would carry on, hubris enough for a lifetime, only to point to another darkness.

“Hark,” they’d say, “but another tragedy.”

Nothing would be said of the envy, the great maliciousness befallen the innocent. Just another’s eyes sewn shut and added to that pile of piles, for the sightless shall be silenced. And then they would carry on, battered and bruised, limping until they’re tripping.

“Hark,” they’d say, pointing to the bored and apathetic, “but another tragedy.”

Nothing would be said of the sloth, the great drowsiness befallen the innocent. A veritable mountain, the pile of piles would be forgotten, only wishing to be misbegotten. But when none came to help a fallen poet, they would only chuckle and point to themself.

“Hark. But another tragedy.”