Lamentations

Perhaps I’m overloaded,

perhaps I’m tired of it,

perhaps the act of caring,

has all become a bit much.

Stunned into stoicism,

through the sheer multitude

of grief and inconceivable acts

performed daily and globally.

The meter broke,

the scale snapped,

the weights and measures

are rusting in the back.

A standard state of mourning,

that’s the simple fact,

black arm bands and half mast

tributes too often in sight.

Perhaps it’s a funk,

perhaps it’s a fugue,

perhaps it’s just how it is,

perhaps it’s always been.

Personal and public,

they both sing dirges

by choirs of the spent,

the worn and weary.

A threadbare soul,

worn thin through

wringing of hands and

furrowed brows.

Perhaps I’m just annoyed,

perhaps I’m just irritated,

perhaps I’m just exhausted,

Perhaps this is the end.

It’s just how I worry,

And I worry a lot.

The poet’s burden,

I guess…