Mockery Is High Art

The sky is stormy black,
Even scavenger birds
Are too disoriented to attack
On a day void of perceptible light.

My mind is crashing
Like a virus-infected computer
Impossible to reboot.

I’m not one to argue or dispute
What any woman would impute,
I take you solemnly at your word,
You never loved me.

The afternoons of tea,
The musicals and matinees,
The holding hands
During summer parades
Was all a charade.

And mockery is high art
That the naïve never learn to make,
But must always pay
The highest commission to receive.

poem by Uriah Hamilton
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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