(in ottava rima)
Unearthing but a few fair, feisty femmes.
The rooms, they reek of wretched ruins and runes,
Yet, 'mongst the sullied sow, the gentle gems,
With wishless weights, no wedding wounds, no tombs,
The pleasure boats adrift on wind-blown Thames.
Misplaced by deedless diaries missing much,
And, yet, desiring little, but a touch.
I wade the Web, I chant the chat, I fail
To fill the niche engulfing my whole being.
Across the necro-net I sinf'lly sail
Harb'ring no hope, a tawdry tourist's see'ng.
I must confess the rooms are growing stale.
The hope is gone; the novelty ling'ring.
Displaced by heedless howls and mindless moans,
Where souls are never sold, just lonely loans.
So I shall surf the Web, addictive hope!
Of finding what should be or what I need.
The chances are I'll sooner be the pope
Than solve this mystery, alone decreed.
I guess it's just a way of trying to cope
By falling forward into hearts that bleed.
Epitomes of pathos fill my mind
To think of future hopes left far behind.
"If we don't succeed, we run the risk of failure."
DAN QUAYLE
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