A stalemate struck,
by Graham Stone
Conceiving a stagnant state of affairs.
A putrid in-conclusion
Fuels a stubborn frustration,
A perpetual muted tension that
Contaminates the air.
Tit for tat, and this for that,
How petty the little games we play.
How petty our hindering pride.
If only one would concede defeat
And bring an end to the swelling spite.
Lamentably, our steel pride will not greet humility.
Deplorably, our aching jaws have set tight
About the feathered throat of reason and sensibility.
Our brittle teeth bite and bruise and bleed
The life from the thought of rationality.
Only when we’ve choked the last and smallest breath
From the crux of our acrimony, will our jaws finally slacken.
Perhaps then we can marvel in severe regret of our petty little games.