(to view poetry in correct formatting, if you’re on the archives page, click on continue reading)
There is a sickness.
An all consuming one.
our treatment of the symptoms
is only that.
For our pride and presumptuousness
does not although the treatment, of the actual illness.
We pour out, untold fortunes
on medicated temporary mirages
hoping to conceal the inadequacies and indications,
and lacking the fortitude and integrity