The rinsed-out certainty of facts,
And played-out character of acts.
The milled down thoughts and weighted pasts.
Have left us barren, hardened hearts,

We’ve long sought meaning beyond that,
But with our failed effort sat.
We searched in color, music, art.
And gave ourselves to brand new starts.

But few found solace from the plight,
And went to God, in all but spite.
Fewer still found truth in rites,
And chanting songs at candlelight.

Yet others longed for all things bright,
The gilded, minted, stacked to height,
But found a dreadful side to light,
Akin to Icarus in flight.

And still asunder our hopes lay,
Aspiring, writhing, in dismay,
All meanings lost there in the hay,
Abound with needles, prickly, stray.