Humans might be gods—

at least for a moment,

in their minds, because they know 

 

all and aspire to little more 

than what their broken clay shells

Ever revealed. When 

 

Those footprints in the sands 

of time washed away,

The sphynx despairs of finding 

 

his nose ever again,

The candle met in the middle 

with a whimper and was not dynamite,

 

The captain went down with the ship,

knackered by a mutiny of knees, 

numbness of spirit, this

 

Worm eaten vessel trending toward

A lack of sublime days. 

Oh well.  Tomorrow’s another day

 

Same verse, different tune