An empty repetitive reflection

you wish to write poetry
to be what you cannot be
you wish to live in the idyllic
to draw on lost ancient magick
you hope it will all work out
you narcissistically suck your cheeks and pout
you like to witness the elements behind climate control
and agree that the sum doesn’t equal the whole

but you and life don’t quite close-dance
fate, destiny and circumstance
don’t believe in the off-chance
and idealism and your so called virtues
are the sort of things you can afford to lose

so grow dishonest, fake interest
lose heart, lose will, pretend
there is no available data
that projecting constantly
eventually pushes one round the bend

the elements leak through unseen cracks
crumpling eroding tearing reveries
cynics and pragmatics grow louder voices
and the sense of self
diminishes daily by the far greater loss of faith
by growing up by being awake