Three wisemen sat on a log,
In contemplation of a bog.
The first wiseman said “if you will,
“Take a look at the rise of the hill.
“See its gentle, curving side
“Not so unlike my long-lost bride.”
The second wiseman inclined his head
To graying waters, and he said
“Think about this water, rife
“With pestilence, and yet with life.”
The third wiseman felt all alone
As he sat staring at his phone.
He wanted Christmas poetry,
Yet found the Daily Travesty.
The first wiseman, nostalgia found.
The second wiseman almost drowned.
The third wiseman followed the blog
As he sat with the others on a log.
The bog itself was still, unchanged.
This poem, however, is deranged.
