Spock's Victory

An enormous tree fell down,
tortured by heavy winds
and rain. And Mark
did not notice at all,
just eating his spaghetti.
Under watchful eyes, said
suppression of emotion
abided, lack of any passion
gnawed el dente vermicelli,
masticated ample meatball.
Under the keen auspices
of friend and kinfolk, Mark
remained staid, kept settled
in his dining Shangri-La
despite nature‘s storm,
despite the crash
of an old oak.
A thin physique fit yet
unmoved to partake
of Italian, lifeless save
for the mere mechanics
of the evening feed.
Unholy the savagery
of emotions, sinful
the disclosures born
of medulla oblongata.
River-beds dry to hard
clay, the sun lessens,
sunsets shroud day’s
end in ebon and gray.
Vulcan wins.


31 Lines
Writer’s Cramp
12-10-15