The World’s Lament

‘Tis the world’s lament that rises high,
From fragile blooms to crickets’ cry.

We lie for hours on dewy grass,
Making love in castles that shan’t last.

You speak of Kant, of Freud, of Hegel,
I speak of punk with formal angle.

You draw me close to the ocean’s edge,
And we laugh as sounds fill the wedge.

'Tis the world’s great sorrow you feel so deep,
When in silence you grasp me and seek,

To understand which god could allow such pain,
But, dear, there’s naught to explain.