An anonymous melancholy.

The gravity of the question

Met with but the frailty

Of the response, something

Trite about sine qua nons,

Something feeble from

The shibboleths of old...

 

And that's just when

Mellifluous madmen, 

Glint in their eye, 

Deliver such gladdening

Tidings, and the fairytale

Lives, for a while, 

At least, usurper

Of the breaths of truth...

 

Then the centuries sigh,

For we choose

To learn so little,

Repeat with abandon...