Our childish dreams are warm
Beneath the blanket of unknowing,
Our sensibilities secure
All thanks to lack of growing.
Dulcet and desultory,
With ease we are besot,
Avoiding the obstreperous
And things requiring thought.
We swim in tranquil waters
As our bones turn into lard.
Our brains become decrepit
As we hide from all that’s hard.
The deities of comfort
Sanctify our mindless chatter,
A lullaby to help forget
Our lives don’t really matter.
When hunger or reality
Force us, languid, to act
We choose harmony of feelings
Over cacophony of fact,
And thus have we who worship
Our mirror’s charming sheen
Learned to pray for ignorance
So that we may die serene.
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