C’est La Vie

C’est la vie, things you can’t change remain 
vexatious if you don’t take the pain to move; 
when you see tribulations backed en masse 
to an horison turn away - 180 degrees a fair 
tack leeway to any sailor fuddled in fulsome 
breeze fouled by laboured anecdotes; there 
is more sense seeing regulated vacancy for 
the artifact it is, not as a breath of life 

And it is poetry; doesn’t have to metricate a 
Spenserian antiquity, heaven’s chastened if 
it did - yet colloquy phrased as ‘moderation’ 
is pedantry teed into corpses of near-death 
torpid, pensive dicks taking themselves too 
seriously, then forgetting to breathe 

Irony in being short of breath’s either you’ve 
depleted oxygen supply expending energies 
way out of whack to cases of unconsciously 
amused displacement - or it’s sensory angst 
preying on artifice fed too obvious bait, and 
that’s ‘c’est la vie’ for sure 
© 8 October 2013, I. D. Carswell