What devilry is this, Consciousness keen,  
That tempts us to see what ought be unseen?  
A plague upon survival's ilk,
This thinking beast now wrapped in silk.
No longer content to forage and breed,  
now dabbles in lofty thoughts of need.  
Hope . . . , you deceitful *****, how you mock  
Promising grace while hurrying the clock.
To question, to yearn, to toss and to flail,  
The folly to search and drink from the grail.  
Yet, mad hope persists, to soothe our lot,  
and reason abandons the mind it begot.