The Swinging Pendulum

When the fairy tale finally ends
Our dreams become discordant
And we find ourselves wandering
Nakedly alone through the nightmare
Of knowingly created Existence.

We return guilt ridden to one hour Sundays
And sing with mechanistic certitude
The songs rotely learned as absolute,
Further atrophying our Essence,
While rejoicing at being saved
From ourselves.

This entry was posted in Collected, Metamorphosis. Bookmark the permalink.