For she was hostile, meaning, she’d improved;
At heart we crave illusions, like control —
It’s everywhere we’ve been, but never moved,
For profit’s so much lighter than a soul.
I know of course I could, that’s why I can’t;
Don’t point at hatred like it isn’t yours,
It’s only us that keeps our chances scant,
We miss the fish, and tear ourselves on lures.
Her mind’s a desert, and her heart’s a swamp –
He cobbles poetry, and tinkers verse –
We cover dust and ash in fame and pomp,
And practice what we know we can’t rehearse.
Oblivion, more habit, now, than quirk
Is not the only answer that will work.