Mon petit volcan

There’s no “poof,” no more…

… don’t need proof, no more
But I try, and I try,
I’m a stupid sport;
And you don’t even snoop,
In all truth, we bored.
Caught in a loop,
being wound like cored.
We not bound, but we bound
Who could miss that chord?
Enlisted; chores
like the dishes, spore
into misfit scorn,
being “fine” feels foreign, now.
Every little bridge I try to build
gets torn down.
So to relive, I proceed,
to explore town.
Would you believe, when in need,
it can be found?
This is why rings and a creed,
get a low brow.

Ganymede Rising