The Great Floods That Plague Us

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No longer as bright as a newborn.</p><p id="e3fd">In two-thousand and eight, The flood of coins infatuated the infamous baron Oh the choir sang a tragic song. The flood of sensation settled our primitive wants Our meaning of life is torn.</p><p id="781b">Everyday, The Buddhists say, Sit down and wait until dawn. Who am I to call out the wrongs in the monks?</p><p id="c5fc">(Hint: <i>Abaddon</i> is the nickname of a tyrant you know who)</p><p id="fb54">© Marmotian 2022</p><p id="cc8b"><i>Comment to let me know if this poem stirs up your thoughts! If you like this poem, please clap, <a href="https://medium.com/@marmotian/subscribe">subscribe</a> to me and share it out! Support me <a href="https://marmotian.com/contact/">her

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A poem about the floods that destroy every balance

Excesses wreck what is underneath. (Image from Pixabay)

They say, There is no escape from the great plague. The memorable today is faded like the Abaddon may Washed away like bygone days…

In last May, The flood of clouds created an unyielding storm Now that fragile roof is gone. The flood of sediment clouded that turquoise pond No longer as bright as a newborn.

In two-thousand and eight, The flood of coins infatuated the infamous baron Oh the choir sang a tragic song. The flood of sensation settled our primitive wants Our meaning of life is torn.

Everyday, The Buddhists say, Sit down and wait until dawn. Who am I to call out the wrongs in the monks?

(Hint: Abaddon is the nickname of a tyrant you know who)

Comment to let me know if this poem stirs up your thoughts! If you like this poem, please clap, subscribe to me and share it out! Support me here and join Medium membership here.