Foobs:

It's strange to be so self-obsessed
that someone else's pain or death
produces neither empathy
nor thoughts of noble charity
but rather leads one further in
and from the world to memory's din;
but after all, it's real fear
that makes such things to disappear.

The poem, just as many do
in flood of words or blessed few
has petty verbal games to play,
but in the end has naught to say.
A poorly written paragraph
with little wheat and flowing chaff
is what the poet (loosely) wrought:
the line-breaks added added naught.

You think the poem's that bad? Uh-oh. This does not bode well for the poem. (Which poem, last week's or this week's? Or both? Will have to read this week's ASAP.)

Foobs:

When time allows and will's restored
I will return with something more:
a sonnet for my final fan,
the Fray's own form and function man...

I await like the proverbial intelligent cat at a mouse hole, with "baited" breath.

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