An image of this place, this time

Indelible

Incredible

In a way that invites neither quite awe

Nor fear.

False assumptions rooted permanently

In a history mythologized for less than art's sake

(Is there any virtue

In knowing the intricacies of folly

So intimately?)

This, reality unquestioned

Extant, self-explanatory

On the basis

Of our having found some understanding

Of the fragments thereof.

The race goes not to the swift

Nor to the slow.

What victory is to be found

In any of this?

(Where is victory to be found at all

—earnestly desired?)

An image—weeping synthetic tears

Of self-righteousness.

Empty hands grasping

For that which

Has, and always will, elude us.