sooty hereafters

our sooty hereafters demand
scant analysis,
steeped as we are in a dark delirium
in which we stand bound
to write our restless chronicles,
of such blandness, on resinous air.

Configured by our glands, deep down inside
we are sourly aware of out lack of talent,
and that makes us sore and black, so hourly,
such an incessant hammering.

Age of cloaked despots, and we pretend
to not see, head-in-the-sand-wise,
the lost fortitude of us savages,
the magic wand gestures we still look for,
as our training skillfully taught us to.