Why did the old bald pot-belly laughed?
What was the unfortunate serene serendipity?
It was a bed of roses, not the buds but the thorns,
He was a ceramic pretender, another bluff.
The voices of another man's hurt was better,
than his voices which was no less rough.
He drowned his thoughts as not to hear himself think.
Perhaps it wasn't as bas as he thought,
perhaps he wasn't at the very brink.
He was glad and grateful of his past,
was mad and fretful of the things that won't last.
Imbibed,
in his great mazy bee-hives,
were the sweet corners of dried up nectar.
Memories frozen in his skin,
soon start rotting and smells foul.
Behind the closed doors of his room,
he closed his doors to get intimate with his doom.
Spectating the cleansing by the dirty acts,
was the gold blob with his miserable reactions.
With a forceful curse in an angry pitch,
he threw if off into a ditch without any apparent hitch.
It was a gift,
to remind him of the rift.
Not laughing now are you, peace?