Truth Is Futility

Lifetimes spent as the lurching ranks of the blind
Hunched, rag-draped, with cold hands gripping tight
To the stooped shoulders of those in front

Stained and sodden with the filth of hopelessness
Mouths leak with the drool of the lost
Drowning in an acid fog
Footsteps press upon the heaped carcasses
Of those gone before

Any vestigial hopes of revelation
Blasted by the corrosive, searing poison
And stunted, malformed limitations
Of our own pitiful senses

And what will we do
When the wretched and terrified infant
That curls within the core of our being
Stands before the lectern of reality?
In the glare of truth's withering courtroom

A whimpering wraith, stripped of all bravado
Naked, pale and afraid, in thrall
Cowering before the implacable lesson
Of the brutal judgments to come

Driven back to the stagnant trenches of dogma
And derision we shall be
With yokes made of blackened timbers
Strapped harshly to whip-shredded backs

As our vertebrae creak
Under the weight of imposed illusion
Our mouths work in silent prayer
To those who pull tight the curtains
Sealing forever the tomb of awareness
To a feeble chorus of welcome
Cursing the futility of truth
Decrying the glare of revelation