Tuesday, October 20, 2009

Spilt Milk

A dreaded howl already known
lurked on the horizon,
a storm had passed... or did it?
Inklings of dark clouds wafted past the pastures
that reeked of manure and primroses...

The first clue... a simian screech
igniting a headache
of pubescent misdemeanor.
There were soothings and smoothings,
as a lowing cow grazed on
in numb and utter resistance.

"Seek the high road,"
the gentle and kind Guru chanted
as the forlorned bovine
looked for answers in the cumulus.

In the chewing of dumbfounded cud
the Vichy water would not digest... I digress.

The eye of storm transcended
over pastoral plains
and rose colored glasses
were donned in the milking.

The screech of an owl forewarned
of a sorrow's melancholy,
the sleeping monkey has awakened
from a slumber of revenge.

A high road of victory has washed away
in a gully of mud and stones
to the hey of a delta.

A mournful lowing
will not share it's misgivings,
the cane will hurry
to it's sugary conclusion.

The plains will lie bare,
quiet, and contented
before a house built on straw.

The high road continues...
yours was a climb to a polar capped trove
not worth the expenditure
of a drop of soured milk.

The path to the least resistance
will continue.... unencumbered
by the vanity of a perfect reunion.

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