A Name and Little Else

A catalyst, dipped in fire, a belch
Memories serve as a match
Begging forgiveness, promising again;
The disease is certain to catch

On further reflection, please do not
Pretty please, say that you can’t
The idea of slightest, greatest, or middle
Causes a rage and a rant

It’s simply too much, and too little, by far
And none of it’s worth all the troub…
I can’t even begin, much less finish,
With an every-time-wrong-way rub

Let someone else have it; I do mean all
If it’s like that, the price is too steep
The smart is too short, the stink too wide,
And the stupid is just too deep

It thinks too little, too much, of itself
A fickle, passing wind, a decree
It tilts on stilts, and then, suddenly wilts
At nothing and all that you see

Throttle the speed, and down the shifter,
Or the shafter, or the hole, or whatever
Turn it away, and all that it offers,
Which is little and even less clever

For days are short hours; hours, too long
Months wasted on the beginning
But cutting it short and calling it quits,
One is afforded more winning

Then, years all stretch comfortably out,
All the tired heads nod to agree
The minutes are sweeter; decades, too
And everything is as it should be

The poetry of Kevin Trent Boswell — **Oops, I dropped the picture.**

Author: Kevin Trent Boswell

Kevin Trent Boswell is a thing that once blinked briefly in and out of existence. It made noises and gestures while it lasted. The exact nature of its demise is unclear. Some sources say it collapsed beneath the weight of entropy and time. Other tertiary evidence suggests the possibility that it was destroyed by a predator, an accident, or perhaps even by itself. The truth of the matter is unknown. Luckily, no one cares. View all posts by Kevin Trent Boswell