Lackluster Poem by Christian Thomas Scott

Years before life curdled fresh,
There came and naught, where tendrils lay untrampled.
Footsteps not for half as deep,
Yet wider placed, as time progressed,
As though protected by inherent lack of taste:
Expand. And every little drop did burn,
Like never and before was never likened in this way.
So call it luck, but somehow no one cared:
Though presently appointed, others held a hand
In every mixture of some problematic
Whim or murky dregs.
We lost our focus, are we blind? Likened now to
Some clear solution, as though it could retaliate
Against this fell infirmity of truth.
Acceptance is a downfall to the hubris of the heart,
For is it not perfection,
Smiling downward from the wall?
And somehow all the faeries died,
Around the age of sympathy, but only for
Oneself and in rainy days of youth.
Perhaps without the greenery of tangible-drawn
Spheres, And also in the mind is growing:
Forever growing nil. The clusters cave to
Hard pressed roads, traversing to that company of
Lonely crowds of men, living in the presence
Of the forests of no man.