The duping of the theorists
A man robbed of his solitude
is a man eluded of his reason.
The sons of the accountants
wear themselves down, outside-in,
for the cloth of their discontent
settles ever slowly on the skin.
Posterity itself is the self-same myth
of old men dragging to death young men.
Yet, if we squint, we may admire it.
The decade trembles to hold its progeny:
yawning over them, yawning under them.
The which decides the whither:
bothered and paralyzed, or swallowed
by the tiers of their confinement.
Where a wall unclothed is a window,
so a man dressed in noise is beheaded.
To exhaust their century the young go
prying into origins lain fallow too long.