a depressing poem about depressing things

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The fan spins, errk eek errk eek errk eek...

The unknown tethered by a muse's fragile twine, 

MLK subdued, no reason to care

No reason to dream.

We've come to our nation's capital to cash a check.

Time is a construct, 

Constructed by peasants on the road to decay,

Trying to grow a broom stick with staw

In rocky ground.

What is truth?

The stars dimmed,

Unshining on a cloudless night.

Hiding their light from the wise men and shepherds,

Who yearn for hope.

Hut, hut, turn your back to the forest and your front to me.

The only lights, the lights of Babel,

High on a pillar of irregular stone, 

Crumbling at the slightest touch.

Immediately rebuilt.

May no one ever eat fruit from you again.

The rulers who rule rule badly,

While those in denial raise flags.

And the rulers give speeches, visit dignitaries,

And Atlas threatens to cave.

Proud men don't like having to look up.

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