How can you or I describe

the arid, ashen drought inside?

What is it all about?

I wonder if others feel it too:

The endless , dreary and dark monotony

of every day. Or is it only I who

experience this dreadful atrocity?

Like the wasteland after a hurricane blew,

or the slow, relentless weathering of time.

It cannot be stopped through

Botox, creams, pills, whatever you may do.

That’s life: a frantic, fearful scramble

for solutions, an ancient gamble.