The Deplorable Thing

The deplorable thing about you, my friend,

is not your arrogant hubris;

it's certainly not your haughty conceit,

or that you are pompously priggish;

it has nothing to do with your ego or gall,

or the fact that you're awfully sententious;

it's just that you think that you're better than me,

which I deem ironic, pretentious.

in the summer, when the monstrous days sink away, promise me you won't look back

toes edge party lines

exacerbates indolent minds

aggravates cacaphonous sides

obfuscates impoverished sighs

kill your idols

kill your gods

take up your cross and follow me

over the edge

where the sea submerges silent screams

still sillhouettes sink solemnly

into patchwork skies.