Horrible futures are soul-shaking
If believability indices are overcome
And souls fly out from my chest
To protest their exclusion from
The possible terrors that could
Come into their nonsensical beings
Could you find a space for me
On the bench at the beginning
Of the end of the world?
Where we'll be permanently on
Decks that brook no trout
Fished clean of hooks for
The entertainment that futile
Emissaries against private capital
Raged on and built false stoves
For the burning of the collective
Effort for the social warmth
Today, we look into the crystal
Stoics and hear the voices of people
Who knew how to ignore the
Waves of the present in service
Of a future that didn't shiver
At any temperature; those
Writers feared the cold,
However, because they could
Imagine running out of wood
But not of ice.
Futility, thy name is predictive.
Thank cats for their indifference,
Dogs for the rain,
And legends for staying alive
As we pass further away
From a Ra that didn't
Care, to a Lucifer that
Craves things that can't
Be imagined: so exercise
And your imagination
Won't set Faust free,
But everyone needs
More treadmills.
Roman Ryan 