Swansong Poem by John Sensele

Life, why art thou so fickle
So elusive, so inquisitive and so intrusive
Such that you withhold the miracle
I so much deserve not just in an intuitive

Sense but also in the diverse directions
Muses choose booze to inspire my ire
Despite my predilections and selections
To retire your fire

Which messes up tresses on my head
Stresses me up and depresses
Moods and great goods said
To clear wrinkles from faces

Rendered so sad, so bad
Lives loiter and limp along
Crestfallen, convinced no glad
Moments for them will sing a swansong.