I ignore all art and beauty, subtly thwarted robot that I am.
My preoccupations lead me nowhere;
I am in love with futility, wandering around in circles
that I am determined not to see.
Whispering tales of elaborate malice
I haunt myself without mercy.
My empty performance resounds throughout endless corridors of time –
a repetition without grace or purpose.
Numbered in scores of thousands,
we flock together without fellow feeling.
Associating blindly for want of anything better to do
whilst eternity beckons dimly somewhere in the distance.
Poisoned by our own ghastly futility, dry and hollow,
we stand around,
partaking involuntarily in an obscene pointlessness.
A motley crowd of spent echoes and splintered reflections
with nowhere to go and nothing new to say.