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.
I often like to take existential subjects and write essays of thoughts that go nowhere but seem to scratch an itch. This is a satirical summary on the idea of Schopenhauer that hope itself is folly.
