The Funeral of Small Pleasures
A Petty, Post Pandemic, Pre-Apocalyptic Plea
You can smell it in the grey afternoon
The slow disintegration of small joys
The feeling that the end is coming soon
Not of the world, or life, but of the toys
The little, half-remembered sports that make
The dull and draining daily ordeal sweet
Squeezed between plague and war, what will it take
To wrest their claws from my small, mundane treat?
Praise to Gaia, keep her safe and healthy
Halt pollution, arrest decadent waste;
But from the powerful and the wealthy
Demand a paper straw with strength and taste
I willingly surrender the before
Just please, make what remains make me want more
About the Creator
D. J. Reddall
I write because my time is limited and my imagination is not.
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