Of Wauling and Futility

The sorrow is sublime and under it the spirit is weary,
acute abomination is deemed incurable and is evidently dreary.
It bellows into the night and to the farthest point thus the cries travel,
but then eventually dies with its skin scraped on sand and gravel.

It now roams freely on the harrowed lands, where did death take a stroll
and sniggers it in the darkest corners as slowly raises the toll.
Fear has its name painted on walls and despondency patrols,
Havoc is rampant and chaos in the minds now rolls.

Halt, think and then once again, the purpose of such pain,
what’s done is done ,sulk and whimper if bliss it gains.
Inevitable and indelible they are, then why such madness,
why not feed it to the mongrels , what use is such sadness.

Lays amongst maggots and in moist soil, it only awaits putrefaction,
of what you shed and waul for, is just dust in progression.
Have your fill of the euphoric air, and glorify the endowed span,
feel , embrace, scream or just profligate, all of it while you still can.