Poem-A-Day: Day 326

Confetti

The cold seeps in,
in ways not understood,
but understood nonetheless,
making little and more sense,
more or less,
with each passing click,
clatter, destruction
of the known sense of reality,
destruction of the classical;
Beethoven stealing Brahms,
all for the sake of saying:
“I wanted to thank you for finding
Grover Cleveland's presidential time machine for me.
I'll give him your regards.”
It’s all stolen,
all a sham, or shambles,
the stumbling madness of dear death,
under the breath of not understanding
one or the other.
It has been gotten,
and grabbed off the shelf,
spilling words in a trail
of rat mince salivation letters.
And to the editor,
thank you for not smoking.