Redemption

Standing in line
With fifty-dollar proof in hand
Proof for redemption
That's the plan

The receptionist knows no one
Who comes to her counter
I cannot help but let innate judgment
Unconsciously denounce her

Fake warmth and a forced smile
Welcome her stranger line
How may I help you?
However, I find

Perhaps I, we have lost the right
To complain about this.
Everyone stands in eerie silence
As though something were amiss

Amassed to this line for a common goal
Yet unaware of each other's likeness
Only one sound penetrates the silence
The receptionist's false kindness

The silence remains unchanging
And so it seems
We continue beyond redemption
Unlike the voucher I redeemed

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This blog is dead. This poem's a paragraphing test for this iPad. I think it failed though.

Futility

Collab between Cynic and Caprice

Rules: Two lines per turn, rhyme scheme ABBCCDD... JJA



Perhaps it comes and goes too slowly
To be of any significance
In spite of all that happens
Worldly or otherwise
When taken to the skies
Everything falls eventually
And crumbles to sully
The name of new creation
Without validation
By those who know naught
Of waters with danger fraught
A mist of lies conceals doom
But often takes up too much room
Thus doom must reside adjacent
To life, wanton and complacent
Thinking to provide to all, for all
But witholding much, withal
Do ferns feel pain at the drumming rain?
Surely they don't want to meet germination again
A hard process of labour lowly

Education

Collab between Cynic and Caprice

Rules: Two lines per turn, Rhyme scheme ABBCCDDEE....JJA
I can't believe I actually managed to glean some meaning out of this poem. It's ridiculous.


Lying in a sea of arbitrary constants
Is everything and nothing
And all that grieving brings
Is a sentient mattress
Coddling a swampy mistress
Exuding a lachrymose fog
That burbles in tagalog
But angels dine on lead tonight
Disguised as sheet graphite
Whose layers spill forth, incontinent
Like a shedding onion meant
To do naught but strip itself
Prior adornings adorning the shel
Of self, propagating strip terror
Most would agree it was an error
To strip it; slicing would be tastier
Though julienne belongs not in the patissier
Rising like baking soda meets vinegar
Or pantaloons balooning forever
Leaving the round with growing distance