"This Modern Life or 'Maybe Not'"

We are like clockwork inside, only maybe not in the Least. We are the modern world, the forgotten word, Only maybe not Just like that. We are never free from love, though we Wish That it might be that we could be, When summer sunsets grown old, senile And blighted by the taking of too much Time. We are simple things, and who are we but to Doubt God, the sound above? We are the spider, it the fly. We try heroic capture in our web. So massive. So loud it beats its wing. Tearing and fraying Our dew covered monuments. We are never free from talking too much, even when Quiet, We bubblegrumble little hisses and warm with Small and white and Deep, full of quite the tiniest little bits of fluff, Smoky mirrors. We name ourselves Hope, grandiose, Pandora's bastard sons, Or even Esteem, Even Cravings; Even occasionally, long postponed until that long autumn night, Bitterness. With our feet: Grass and sand and miles unwalked. We wait, and call it living. We die, and call it waiting. We say the most cliched things. We never grow old, We stay young forever, you and I and them. We just Laugh Grey and wrinkled, slowing down. Shrinking. Bleeding out, and sweating, unaccustomed to the heat. We are never free from love. From longing We are chastised, Vaguely Lectures about something trivial. We whisper something Trivial. We lost something Trivial. On a cool, autumn night, damn near the dawn of Spring. Quiet as a blink, sliding down To the riverside... (We are never free from lust, from longing, from knowing, Hallelujah) Watching the world spin round.