Exercises in Futility I

The great truth is there isn't one

And it only gets worst since the conclusion

The irony of being an extention 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 armor of numbness

Burning bridges becomes a habit to support

And the front line 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 odor 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 armor of numbness

Burning bridges becomes a habit to support

And the front line expands like there's no tomorrow

Spector of death, 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