Our Glorious Hubris - Poem

Things no more grow old or lame, they simply fall apart

For blood to spoil, need mould and rust, and time to play its part

A winners hand, needs boon and bust, and crowds to carry on

A sun to rise and nights to fade, headaches to sing their song

Tell us a tale, carve a path, then let it grow wild again

Before the gailing winds roll through, we’ll round another bend

We’ll count on toes, and fingers blessed by work and dying light

and rummage in our tools once more, before that final night

We’’ll build a mighty ship or two, then burn them down for warmth

And drain our sores for candle wax, praying without pause

We left our loved in dust and sand, a million tiny cuts

Still cheers go out for one more game, wether boon or bust