This isn’t funny

Like the ominous clouds lingering on the distant horizon, evil’s echos tremble in every fold of fabric in the days of our lives. Every photon of hope photosynthesizes the last plant needed to sustain life. Yet humor blows the clouds before the sun, mocking man. Damn the thoughtless laugh, dancing on the graves of Death’s sad victims, singing songs of silly suffering. How dare smiles defecate upon the casket’s roses. Warmth has no place at a funeral. Who is there to bear the tranquilizing arrows of the empty cackle? From the quiver to the flesh, the ark yields no animals of redemption, only a blasphemous dove. Might it be better to kill the wretched bird to protect the caterpillar of our pride? 

God forbid the sun’s warmth on our solum winter night, for it may melt the ice sculptures we have grown to worship. The jester’s ironclad neglects our wooden ships’ demand for safe harbor. Formless water and splintered wood, there’s nothing funny about this. The whole town weeps, for their idols are but shattered ice. ‘This isn’t funny,’ they all should cry. But no whimsical whips went wishing when wonder wrote? Should they not stagger at time’s drying river? A dam for the damned. They shall thirst! But they persist? An anomaly, it must be.

For in its opposition, an outlandish suggestion might arise. Might a mallet, swung in satire, beat the barbs of thought? Prepare for broken and bloodied fingers, decimated in the greedy swing you shall regret. Does your heart knock upon your ribs, screaming of those who may unwittingly intercept your interminable motion? But the spotlight only shines brightly upon the chaos of your violence. Do careful chisels construct monuments only for the blind? May we all lament our hands within the crime and the other before our eyes.