CrustyBlueWagon

Pushing stones up rough inclines
The spirit flags from time to time
There seems no reason to the ryhme
A heave
A sigh
And tears are cried

We seek happiness
At cost we can ill afford
Paid for by credit
In a handy pill form
We know we are dying
Of our own accord
And yet we trudge along

My flaccid cock
A dead fish
Beached
on the flesh shore
in the bath
intended
to wash away my sins

Preening meandering
thoughts of reason
we muddle through life
from season to season
we wander through life
searching for meaning
while settling on ruts and perspectives