Sitting at a table at the park,
I’d rather be sleeping at dark.
Giving all I can to be here,
While consumed by the depths of fear.
Of existence, I know not the purpose,
Does the Universe wind thread to pull and hurt us?
Nah, the ebb and flow will come and go,
Though the ebbs they last—so goddamn slow.
Wyrmlings compulsed in a portal of greed,
Yet, the world spins on and ignores their need.
They feed themselves to a giant snake,
And hold fast, though the saplings’ roots won’t take.
No souls left to satiate such great appetite,
Now nipping the end of the line—with its stolen might.