Weltschmerz

I have grown tired from too much poetry and these everyday ironies,

have sunken inwards,

as a spot in our lawn that’s slowly turned to a hole,

now something we’re forced to address,

the frost level come up,

the remains of a great maple felled long ago,

the trunk finally given way to rot,

now just a patch on the ground,

a depression.

The guy said you can just backfill it with dirt.

And how relieved I was,

to finally know the cause.

About pinklightsabre

William Pearse publishes memoir, travel journals, poetry and prose, and lives in the Pacific Northwest.
This entry was posted in poetry, writing and tagged , , , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

10 Responses to Weltschmerz

  1. We use that’s guy’s solution on ourselves, but it doesn’t tend to bring relief.
    Nice non-poem, Bill.

    Liked by 1 person

  2. Yahooey says:

    Tired from too much poetry and everyday ironies is a good definition for Weltschmerz

    Liked by 1 person

  3. ksbeth says:

    everything you write is a poem

    Liked by 1 person

  4. lovely dark eloquence.

    Liked by 1 person

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