Someday they’ll look back here
and tell each other,
that the end started with us.
We are the plateau kids, the ones who lost it;
We who watched the new millennium
sink into place as our monument to apathy.
The derivative of a derivative is our only construct left standing now.
The de-evolution of a soul, spiraling out,
becoming thinner and thinner the farther it reaches,
leaving us hollow scarecrows
still guarding the dead field.
We are a generation of potentiality,
lost in twisting teeth. Clockwork gears
churns us out, hollow men pushing hollow men
through and out doors, into a world of excessive emptiness.
Fertile though the mind may be, it’s lost on us.
We are the spectators of progress, the ones who watch and
laugh and drink and fuck and snort and smoke
and post and pop and dance and steal and die.
Beauty stopped with us,
and all was lost.