What do we do?

My dissatisfaction with the ivory tower.

Like a swamp, these curling, smoky thoughts simmer in my mind

Like the gunge of a stagnant pool found midway down a waterfall

My eyes react to all I see and yet it seems I remain blind

My ears register all that reaches me and yet I do not hear at all

Why am I this way today?

Why are things this way on any day?

Only a true thinker would resonate with these wonders

Only a true crusader would resonate with these plunders

Why is there sludge?

Why is there slime?

Why isn't the world made of fudge?

Why is this poem in rhyme?

How can rhyme be thing when I step in dog s**t on the way out?

What the f**k?

What do all these fancy words do?

If we all just turn to dust, then why do we even give a s**t?

In darkest moments a strange clarity pervades

It never attacks and it never invades

It merely is and has always been

And yet it seems to have always been unseen

We see it with the satisfaction of a symphony

And we remember it when it seems there is no harmony

We can question and we can cogitate

We can criticize and we can deliberate

We can theorise and we can stagnate

But in the end, there's only one question that'll fill my plate

And it comes only from the attitude that there is a chance at any rate

What do we do?