The prophets are corrupt.
Tablets that are easy to swallow
but impossible to tolerate
in the swarming ache,
accelerating climate;
the act of being human at all.

Human at all
in the face of the clock,
the tick, tick, tock of progression,
incremental change;

the feeling that you are heaving a boulder,
only to wake, to shave,
and to do it all again.

The drinks are cheap here,
and old habits live easy.
I am doing better than most
in the humdrum collision
of everyday living.

I am doing better than most,
but still I climb into the canopy
only to wake up ******, alone,
and at the bottom of the world.