Indifference is the sad unspoken
   purgatory of an apathetic world

We do our best,
Use varying syntax,
Rhythm, rhyme and meter.
Our words are picked
From the garden variety,
But the themes are from
The Prodigal Son.
Is there nothing new
Under the sun?
I'm writing the same poem
Over and over:
Variations on the same themes:
Love, Life, Death, Family,
Power, Wealth, Nature,
Fatted Calves, etc.

I could invent new words,
But the meaning would
Convey the same:
I widdle you.
Your soft sortesches condestort in mine.
It all sounds too familiar
In any language.
We need a new world
Where arms reach from our heads
To bypass the thoughts transferred
To our sortesches holding folences
That pen our work.

I dissected your poetry,
  read between the lines
    different than mine,
perhaps our sentiments
  don't exactly jive
 nor rhyme in their profundity,
dissimilar perspectives
   in verbosity's distinction
    as fantasies are vastly unique,
our dichotomy mutually exclusive
yet, we bleed the same colors
   as our spaces blur into each other

raining magpie madness,
   darkly drenching the
       marrow of vital spirit,
thieving in night's anticipation
clawing eye's conscious thunder,
     lashing 'pon tainted yearnings
plucking rendered heartstrings
       engaged of looming silences,
  submerged in doused inequity
      of blackened skies ambiguity