Hard Times

Dull days of disenchanted dreams,
tear-stained by sorrow’s septic streams.
High hopes, once held by golden thread,
with autumn’s leaves lie dashed and dead.

Warm weeks, when summer’s sunlight pours,
and swift sublime serenely soars.
Yet life has lost her goddess glow:
I’m reaping what my sin did sow!

White nights, when no one seems to sleep,
drench me in dread depression deep.
I long to serve up choice good cheer,
no poet strives to snarl and sneer.

Hard times though poison poet’s pen,
and no amount of zeal or Zen
can conjure up a Disney Dream
or scribe a sure-fire sweet sunbeam.