A meloncholy’s drama begging for his mamma,
A sadist’s jaded past hoping it will last,
A choleric’s feral approach, drawing their reproach,
And a masochist’s regret taking every bet.

Each one no better than the other,
One may start to wonder, “Why bother?”
As complete opposites dying to be heard,
They hiss, growl, gouge and cut.
They pounce, kill, and quarrel.
There is no rhyme or reason,
No constraints of any season.
Viral, convoluted beasts thrown together as a herd,
No more helpful to each other than scorpions in a barrel.

Stopping in vain to ponder, “Why?”
Why the urge to be so sly?
What’s within that can’t repent?
How long before this soul is spent?
Who is this and what do they want?
Exact this pound of flesh from your miscreant.

A war of spirits and their powers,
Or simply a creation of ours’?
These beasts have no sense of time,
No fear of any reckoning hour.
In sick, twisted song they chime,
Stalking and creeping ’round every bend.
Preparing for their seperate calls,
One question still remains….
Which world is real and which is vain?