Since nothing here is ever accomplished
I guess I’ll keep on writing these poems
In blank verse this time nothing iambic
Seems to last very long—or so it seems
Nay it is, reader—I know not which seems
You refer to as I have only just
Enough left in me to cauterize wounds
I have no idea where they come from
Except where I am set apart from all
That dismays this world if it ever stopped
Listening to itself speaking nonsense
And liberating itself from these fools
Who saunter about like the Lone Ranger
Committing treason and expecting rain
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Joshua Keiter 