It's not good, I've gone to poetry.


Bribes and lies and senseless guile,
They all do cultivate this bile
That bubbles upward all the while
And naught can heal the ache.
Here Hope lies raped and stricken blind
As Fear’s seduction drugs the mind
So rapt, that words of any kind
Turn truth that one will take.
Our machinations ruin us
Our thoughts corrode and bleed out pus.
We are our damage, and so thus
Infection spreads unchecked.
Push the stone, and it returns.
Entrap the devil, still he burns.
Yet not a soul among us learns
The dark that we reflect.
So doom upon our table spreads
And gluttonous we fill our heads
With sugared tripe and moldy breads
That poison all the more.
The pointed scowls and gritty screams
Against the enemy who seems
To throttle all our precious dreams
Become our favorite whore.
Our entrails eaten every night
Re-form again at morning light
And growing weary of this fight,
The acid burns our eyes.
A suffocating part we play,
In roles from which we long to stray
Yet suffering commands us, stay
Eliciting more cries.
Would I that I could dispossess
And extricate this vile distress
That it would no longer transgress
The sacred soil of soul.
The duelists spar but never fall,
Still circling deadly in their thrall
And still no verdict comes to all
Of ever being whole.

P.S. Schroedinger's Cat is in Pandora's box.