As a satire on the selection process
In this, the battle
of life, we tug
On the forelock of fate
To determine our decision; looking not
At what could be,
But merely that
which has gone before.
We are as if afraid -
Afraid of chance, of consequence.
Even the plagiaristic repetition
Confounds
and silences us.
Our parodic departures from sense
Serve only to remind
the remainder
That the portion of morality we possess
Be unfittingly commercial - devoid
Of any notion of charity,
governed
By greed and sustained
Solely on a diet of choleric philanthropy.
Exacerbated by a want of touch,
We neglect the need to
feel.
