an era of dismayed prophets
of seers who have not foreseen
the brooding doom ennui entails;
we are ghosts,
enmeshed in Spiritus Mundi,
the Order,
cogs now in the scheme
of a dead deity;
rebellion has lost its luster,
revolution, its sting,
inanity, nay,
even tedium triumphed;
our forbears hath burdened
our age’s soul
with nightmares:
what hath this life come to,
whilst losing each shred,
each sinew,
of innocence?
a tired old wheel
spinning, spinning,
and each breath,
each death, forever
losing its meaning.
