A brief respite
The voice of joy cries loud within,
and echoes through my brethren,
but after toast to mirth and drink,
we adorn our heavy loads and sink,
into the labor which keeps us afloat,
and, fearful, syphon our leaky boat.
Though idealism and faith hang tight,
obdurate pragmatism discovers flight.
Repeated often in such flowery tongue,
a thought, on which my mind stays hung,
holds power enough to defy intelligence,
and the words come out, but not the message.
So I trim the branches of redundant fluff,
And the only word that’s left is-