Cursed by ingratitude to forever

repeat a day and a night where seasons
hinge on decisions, faith and endeavor,
you find your eyelids heavy with reasons
for your losses, your slowness, your failure
to cope with the movements of the timeline
imposed on you — (Yes it's true, imposed, sure;
I'll concede you that point, but like fine wine
you must glisten inside your glass prison,
under chandelier bulbs that glow so gold,
under the pretense of class unrisen
before the dawning of histories untold;
Then you'll make weak bellies quiver nauseous,
rising against the spirits that crush us.)
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