Coal

Harping
on this tune,
but who has the time
these times
I leave to my estate.
A timeless melancholia,
engendered,
all dressed up and nowhere to go,
our overdeveloped vocabulary:
and yet.
If we recast
the daily routine
in the form of a ritual game
we may divine
and what of life?
We are to be the last of our generation.
That's what you always wanted
us
to be,
distantly,
vacantly.
All regrets are choices,
distantly.
Calliope and eucharist
and we're revived,
cleansed of our ambition
that we never wanted,
the blight that held us
degrees
asunder
and maintained
iron contraptions
forcing the blood
from our arteries.