Apathy Poem by Patti Masterman

These joys blaze, with a distant residue
A fringe of false, like a tale-tale stain
Or blight of disease, still only a blemish
Through which light can trickle,
Enough to amaze.

These passions flare, like a sunlit virus
Lights up a wandering world of mold,
Like the dead spoil days, with only their shadow
And the way pain plods,
While warmth grows cold.

The old grow older, just like a story
Grows stale with retelling, too many times
And you never realize how tiresome it's getting,
Till you've heard it too often-
It takes just one time.