Passe

Not a perfect ‘O’
Not milky ivory white
But a faint half-muddy-pale-orange
Hardly befitting its past glory…
The Muse of many poets…

Struggling amongst a thousand teeny weenie
Original stars and the lit stars
To gain a small watery space
To reflect its unshapely self

Glory now a thing of the-good-old-days
It was the same… same was the lake
Stagnation and reluctance killed it
In a time obsessed with pushing the envelope
A little further…
With perfecting perfection…