Swad

Sweet, suave, hedonistic pleasure,
Appealing to the senses,
Changing little through the ages,
Meaning quiet and leisure,

Freedom from aches and visitors,
If you ask me. A soft hour
Of uselessness, for stories dour
But romantic in plot twists

And denouements for underdogs
To read of alone and laugh,
Parodic selves as epitaphs,
Wanderers' wondering thoughts

As they traverse gothic forests
Unsuitable for real lives
But out there, far out past the mind
That does its chores. Sweetness rests.