Exercises in Futility I

The great truth is that there isn't one

And it only gets worse

Since that conclusion

The irony of being

An extension to nothing

And the force of inertia

Is now a vital factor

And there is despair underneath

Each and every action

Each and every attempt to pierce the armour of numbness

Burning bridges becomes a habit to support

And the frontline expands

Like there's no tomorrow

I envy

The maggots

Their stuff

At least sticks together

Better than laudations of misinformed seers

And those are lengthy annals of shame that we work with

It's like dumping dead meat at the brink of Styx

With a barge that we made of what was left of Yggdrasil

After veterans of spiritual revolts were done with their armchairs

And I don't even remember which brink is which

The odour of sanctity is just refined stench of existence

Shining pearl of Augeas' crown pales in comparison

And there is despair underneath

Each and every action

Each and every attempt to pierce the armour of numbness

Burning bridges becomes a habit to support

And the frontline expands

Like there's no tomorrow

The grotesque eagles of misfortune, well-fed on Thanatos

Sit still

It's the dignity of scavengers

At the ever-growing garbage dump of life

There is something about

The rigid posture

Of a proper, authentic blind

As if extended arms

Reached

To pass his blindness onto others