Petit Fonctionnaire

We are approaching the end of the funerary flame
Youth's wick has begun to expire and with it
False expectations and reliance on once sound structures
We have kindled the holocaust of trodden ideals
Miasma lingers on tomes in the textual mausoleum of determinism
Our essence has reached its ultimate formation
All acts from this point until our final exits
Will be ancillary - oblique attempts to paw away finitude
We have become prosaic mosaics of internalized statements
Each errant thought, each passing notion that conflicted with our projections
Etches itself in deep creases, resisting extermination by anointment
Resisting daily efforts to purge our skin of vestigial sin
We have taken it upon ourselves to cap the candle of contracts
To snuff the shining doctrine of the noble savage, to wrangle
and lock into place rustling idioms - hobbling in their frailty
We are the beings unto finality, star-stuff brilliantly assembled
In forms hitherto unknown and in constant revision
Travelling billions of light years through awe inspiring sight-scapes
To be dropped in this mundane cage and have the key shattered
Before our ephemeral, doting eyes; to be synthesized as ration meal
For starving congressmen and the one percent of privileged interest
That is our purpose, then, to hearken back to Feudalism
and no longer fret about pretending that we live in a classless realm
We have entered the long winter of ethics
Cosmopolitan nuance bled before the altar of uniformity
The ritual sacrifice of what makes life palatable
Of what we brush off eye-crust in the morning to pursue
For that which we imbibe stimulating root drinks and
eastern tonics to enliven
This American Life: our perpetual stroll
A humdrum dilly-dally through a gallery of endless sufferings
We chuckle and guzzle - incapable of empathy
We avoid beauty and instead feature regularity
Any action that would preserve a base
is stalwart, noble, and in service of our great democracy
Any loose-footing that suggests a toe gently chucked over the line
is insanity - decried as a national emergency
We will never be content because to be content is to live comfortably
And we drive hot-needles into constancy
Choosing, rather, a life of self-imposed depravity
So one day we will become the 'real' us
Instead of this mass of fugue-stricken sheep that clamor
For restful sleep