The prognosis is simple,
really,
its just that
This cycle is unwilling.

Relentless, endless
A hallucination...
of faultless existence.
We\'re the ones who are fooled.

Here we are,
We ride the tide
Like we have sailed it before
Only to keel over
When the waves ebb,

and we beach...
As ignorant as the shore.

Its our security,
this blank depression
What keeps us sane.
The diagnosis is fitting,
after all,
seemingly willing
to offer medication and sleep
even psychadelic dreams!

Nightmares?
They are our spaceless imagination.
What makes
Life hypothetical,
figurative
A self explanation of fool\'s pride.

We are the morons,
we fuel our own demise
with thoughtless incantation
prayers
and too many amens.

We\'re the ones who let our toes
wade in impatience
When all our bodies want
is to swim.