The Process

Sifting through sand, panning for gold;
The process is endless.
The process seems aimless.
Fumbling in darkness, lightheaded and droll,
Inconsolable mirthlessness takes its toll.
Why do immutable matters obsess me?
Why can't I focus on worldlier fluff,
POT-am-US's comical clown-shows, for instance?
I get so distracted by innerspace flutters:
My desires are always on the prowl;
Like feral cats they leap between branches
And scowl at all comely things passing below.
There is no relief apart from my REM-sleep,
In dreams where my idols idiotically prance;
Clad in kimonos, they kindly undress me,
Address me, their host, with gloria tuas,
While praising my lectures on prudent investments,
On husbanding income from husbands to come.
We moderns sprint down our in-turning spirals;
With utmost speed--together, alone--
We leg-pump in parallel, constantly circling.
Should I quit right now and forfeit the trophy?
I race along, torch in hand, forward--to what?
My lane ends in thorns and chaos.