Trite. Predictable as
the lauding of stale, dry-rotted
form, reused and washed regardless
of viability. Redone and paraded as
novel or interesting until the
most patriotic centrists are laughing
CanLit out of the room, calling it
a cab to go collect its dignity.
Or perhaps I am to
give Kate their flowers
upon a further reread.
As it stands, Lent has left
me craving something
with more gristle and marrow
to gnaw on while begging
for forgiveness. My weakness of
will and insatiable search for
a half-decent poetry collection
has erased my promises of
accepting what I have been given
as being adequate.
For today, as today is all that
can be spoken of in candour, I
remain starved for any poetry
spared from strict adherence
to the tired, untrue assumption
that if one uses good form
and is honest, one will eventually
write something worth reading.
But, as has always been, I will forgive and
be forgiven.
TLDR ... thoroughly underwhelming and incredibly unoriginal.