Inane

All pop songs sound the same.
Different voices
Singing of supermarket choices
Made by airheads who cavort
To music bought
By those who find a temporary bliss,
In a kiss,
Then move on to the next passing fad.

I am glad
For the snow came today.
It will not stay
But this cold I feel
Reminds me what is real.
I shall pray for rain
For it cleanses this inane
Civilisation of ours
And causes the flowers to bloom.

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