things not meant, but destinies;
words much said, but little meant --
how is it we become these shells,
our ways so damned improvident?

oh, blame can be an elusive thing:
the outer, the inner - they're none of them us.
when the road that we travel is always one,
a tricycle ends up the same as a bus.

but we cover our ugly with motion and noise:
every bit of the nothing that adds up to less,
until stillness uncovers the wrecks that we are,
where the secrets we keep are not worth a confess,

and the hollow and broken and vain that we hide
is at last laid wide open, for all to see --
if any would notice, which none likely will,
as even our failure is spoiled by our

vanity