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