sometimes in life
it’s all you can do
not to hang from the end
of a dangling noose
when ideals falter
from altered epiphanies
self-imposed litanies
taunt us as truth
reasons unclear
hearken feelings concise
as we slowly succumb
to scopolamine nights
on a hollow dimensional plane
of feigned platitudes
sorrowful vice
desperate pleas seeking quietude
labeled as sacrilege
should we repair
to undo the heedless act
of summoning us here
where an iron fist reigns
with such ironic scrutiny
e’er you should mention
proactive acuity
still, none dare question
’til quietus calls
of that which our parents
paid no mind at all
the stigma, long-standing
insists these facades
are gifts that cannot be revoked
but by god
how oddly beholden
to cognitive bias
that we forgo logic
and deign ourselves pious
to then misappropriate
most hypocritically
fate in itself
with such flagrant defiance
if only our efforts
were aimed toward reality
instead, we sacrifice all
for mere fantasy
lacking the merit
to make the distinction
between fact and metaphorical depiction
we must make the choice
to adhere to a mindset
consisting of ethics
not pandered by pretense
for should we persist
to exist with such dissonance
life itself will soon submit
to obsolescence
[image credit: Louis Wain]
Max, or Not 
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