we all die.
Relics we leave behind for others,
once culturally defined,
a slurry now of overcooked vegetables
in the melting pot of what humanity has become.
For better, we are more homogenous,
conferring fewer reasons to hate
that which is and ever was kindred.
Yet knowing this, do we truly taste the apple
sweetness of experience, or drum up
further excuses to postpone joy?
At worst, we forget our ancestors,
those we derive from genetically,
perhaps to our peril.
For history, devoid of lessons learned,
proves a hollow saga
sucked dry of juice;
a dessicated plum placed primly
alongside a canvas of ripe peaches.
What traces will linger in an adolescent nation
whose excesses are counterpart
to senseless severity;
an artistic strangulation
where the Rubenesque among us
yearn to be thin and dry as wraiths?
A society threatened by hips and thighs
is doomed to infertility of the imagination.