Ire starts up,
deep in the evening
for, though my domicile
is the picture of tranquility
I am living with a troll
who feasts on the certainty
of redundance
It is, at times, all I can do
in restraing myself to
not drink, being irrefutably driven
by the snow of his sobriety
.
White static, sprinkles of a mesh
cascade with the many little nothings
which would seem apparent
to anyone excepting immigrants
or socially retarded refugees
and the greatest bother yet
is that I allow any of this to lend influence
.
Yet, I'm fighting to be the best again,
and somehow, inevetably upon my moments
of crucial meditation, he utters the irrelevant
little minutae which sends me
spiraling to the ground, an angel,
tethered to his ideosyncratic occupations
.
I can forgive him, nonetheless,
shall someday soon lift free from my
self imposed imprisoments, to stretch
a kingly grace across these beloved lands
.
For now, I am a pauper of the spirit,
learning the richness in an understanding
of what ends are gained from nine tails
to five lashes and a dime