Something else was the matter

Today in the morning

I read a letter

About roses and keeping them

Free of Rosegrower’s grief.

Something else was the matter.

What I read was a

Midsummer Letter

Enfolding a poet’s Midlife Belief;

How could I feel

So close to his grief?

When the mind of a poet dances 
Around universal constellations,

We are reduced to atoms and chances;

Not this one; he did not shout out

But reached into substantial relations

Infused with free will

And a dash of psychosis

Providing some form of crude explanation

For this creeping unease to chill
On stage of a drama

Called life. A huge play

Resembling the Simpsons or Futurama.

In comic lies wisdom, 
A humorous madman
In life lies decay.