The virtuous are satisfied with their lot.
They don’t talk about it unless prompted,
and few ever prompt them.
Pompous allegories enfold them.
Dark dirges assemble at their feet.
They inhale sweetness
through their marshy mouths
and exhale turbulence.
Their arms are succulent tendrils
weaving through the damp despairing air
that ensnares the rest of us in apathy.
The virtuous will be the death of me.