we are all plagued by the same
haunting disease.
every step on this wearied road
is just a step in our prison.
esoteric dreams of unchanging bliss
are humanity's liturgy.
the only steadfast thing in
this oxymoronic world is
dissatisfaction.
we are foundering in it,
wishing to drown already.
the romantics looked
to love,
now we look
to apathy;
but this prison
has no escape,
except death.
so we fell in
love
with the grim,
when fantasy
failed us.
now we sit here,
entranced with the mud but
dreaming of beaches.
meaningless,
meaningless,
meaningless.
we are the living dead.