the glib torrents of genuine mockeries
parade and diffuse.
i hang my hat on dull knobs and soldier on
to an empty room, with my bells numb
and my prayers mute.
we are the joyous noise, risen from a grave tune.
but we have our hours locked in minutes
that expire to amuse a few.
perhaps the angels know the jest of it
but remain removed.
having seen it all before, at rest in tired fun
they muse.