the shallow though seemingly
better half of human nature
is a graveyard for dead poets

with its petty but forceful demeanour
it attracts a curiosity that never fails
to make you ponder at the scale of its resolve

not like children to a mother
rather like the disease that afflicts them
it is meaningless but for some ascribed term

... like germs gathering around gutlessly
gravitating towards a comfort zone
mediocre in their progress, echoing the familiar

of their mundane microscopic lives which they
never quite grasp lest they awaken to the sound of
the mirror shattering at the futility of their confession...

it offers merely the predictable for sacrifice
as they, missing the point, stay defensively
snug in their hypocritical drudgery

cowering away in self denial
evaporating like odourless incense
as if they had never been