Mite

I am such a desolate fiend,

Complaining of things deemed as mean.

Not mean by some virulent standards.

But mean as in rarely so pandered.

You know how they say:

“Why do you care?”

A way of same-saying:

“You act too fair.

A mountain of molehills

Thou makest

Why bother, the Lord’s will

Doth taketh

All back when the end is upon us.

In that all alone thou shouldn’t focus.”

Such dribble I’m prone to ad nauseam,

A test of my love for Elysium.

“Care not for this short life upon us,

Spare not to seek heaven without fuss!”

Yet they, ‘spite all these words elemental,

Be first to drop bombs deemed essential

On those whose true faces unseen

They blame for the ire in their spleen.

In one way or ‘nother, how petty

These good folks regale in confetti,

Despite their own claims of not bothered,

What feeleth the child now defathered?