Muted Poem by John Weber

When my spirit tussles uprooted,
I can sense my soul’s too polluted
by games tipped to spill until looted
once my voice and color get muted.

I stroll alone upon human cream
across the arc my steady steps gleam,
tossing back coolness, Coke and Jim Beam,
a corpuscle launched through the bloodstream.

Such hungers entice as I get tossed,
somehow straight lines keep taunting me lost
with every budding prospect I’ve crossed
by corroding my sharp until glossed.

You play with your drink, your hair, your phone.
They queue up to prove you're not alone
wondering which trick will make you moan,
plastic advances always on loan.

When considering how unsuited
all these rouges that fate has recruited,
I hope your vim won't gripe diluted
or your appeal may fall reputed.

If I decide to cuddle your pride
I'll trust you'll keep those longings inside;
in case I slide, please know that I tried
to elevate the beauty you hide.