Thrift, Thrift, Horatio!

"Thrift, thrift, Horatio! The funeral baked meats
Did coldly furnish forth the marriage tables.
Would I had met my dearest foe in heaven
Or ever I had seen that day, Horatio."
- Hamlet


The future looks bleak, The present confused.
The past lacerating.
There are regrets now, risks not needed,
Life could have been lived
with a little thrift in dreams.
Days could have gone, Just as meaningless.
But no whetstone,
to break knives on.

There is man who is mad
he wants to make amends with destiny,
who he shunned
but now he fakes knowledge
of fate and and its yarns
he feigns a power he lost
over his own desires

Now he does not know
what use dreams are
except excuses to sleep longer
and wake up a little later
realize the universe is real
and he is but a slave
of someone else's dreams, of someone else's screams

the poets are all dead and now all is matter
riches are to be scavenged
friends are to be lost
none are forgiven
life is just too short