the insidious vision of
optimism,
drawn and quartered cataclysm,
yet still, ignored,
the vigil of unattended 
chore,
all bored of select 
autonomy,
craving slightly massive distraction 
or
just something of the 
ordinary, extra,
as if this living 
ain’t enough,
as it weren’t,
disentangled concurrency 
where, were we?
was it never?
near? what?
strutting schemes of 
self-importance
the view, only a 
slight portion, and
still
me thinking it all so
much,
out of touch, or
unenlightened 
despite the claims of
trying
by meager might
still defying, onward
stubborn
crude, yet charming
hark, all these hills for
dying,
unable to select a singular,
doomed
to conspire at
each, with
reach
the air for grasping,
gasping,
at the idea of
defeat,
and dismissive of
the unachieved
and accepting the insanities,
preconceived,
and, oh, so, dependent