John to his lady love
Cecilia, I loved you all last week!
How passionately we sang and often
as one dips their toes in twilight and takes the sun
and if it would please you to hear, I became Hamlet in my folly
and Petrarch in my rhymes.
But alas! Now all is gone, now all is lost
so many things have occurred,
to contain Iran, the White House wants a “breakout” period
should the trumpster manage to confront
without leading to a military conflict then we should be together.
I understand that it’s not your way
but your eyes and dimples are worth facing an apocalypse
like a cigarette I raised you to scornful lips,
while May continues to deride from a vantage point
of false pragmatism.
Facebook has heralded artificial intelligence as a solution
to its toxic content problems,
but a certain Schroepfer says: “it won’t solve everything,”
who told him he could roll up his sleeves?
It was growing so fast that in keeping with second amendment
he proclaimed he had the right to bare arms.
When you can cancel whatsoever was between us
then why mock Daenerys as an unlikely choice
of ultimate heir?
Here we are. Eight years and eight seasons after the premiere,
we’ve finally reached the end.
And with so much going on I could easily be the one wandering
the broken streets,
with my face covered in blood as legions of the unsullied stand
inside the castle walls in perfect formation,
a woman on the throne
would be a lovely recognition as to how much females in the series
Cecilia to John, “A few of us are going out after work to pretend
it’s not the end of the world, if you want to join us.”
Photo credits: Lasse Moller, Unsplash
Posted on Weekend Mini-Challenge @ Real Toads
Also posting on Poetry Pantry @ Poets United