So fine a collection of nothing of value;
gloves with no fingers, fingers that leave no prints.
Prints wrinkled and faded with age by neglect.
Success dampened by repeated peripheral losses,
heartache settling in as unopposed as winter after fall,
how can we not be aware of this species of doom threatening?
First little moths of senility flit more regularly now,
until only archives still exist to testify of intellect,
leaving us crying out for yet another one more chance.
As self-pity tears at already flimsy soul walls
Where underneath, in these shadows of unheeded Giants,
we stand knee deep in multiple self-righteous delusions.
Selected from imperfect collections,
touched roughly by fate’s most ethereal extremities,
logic ripped to shreds by the talons
of myriad digital harpies.
we select the knife, leave the bread.
After colliding with good intentions unacted upon,
complicated insignificance defeats common sense.
Too easily accepted excuses when honesty falters,
flame of integrity sputters, already diminished by apathy.
Hushing the crying, we rise; finally provoked to action
or merely readying for flight?