Have not the poets been foretelling this     
     for a thousand thousand generations-     
     that the endpoint of man’s pride is death?   

Under the banner of the heavens we used to seek     
     answers from celestial lights,      
     teasing shade from true form.   

Now, too many seek answers from darkened screens.      
     Little caves everywhere, palm-calloused  
     hallucinations so vivid, we lie and call it god.   

Are we to be content with shadows?     
     Ghosts and graves that cannot mend?     
     Myopia a poor substitute for dreams,
     for communion.