The Way Time Tailors Tragedy

You cannot trust your feelings to do anything but feel,
But you can always trust reality to seem somewhat less than real.
Time seems to be in remote control of your very being,
A blind arbiter of the timeless vision you're busy not seeing,
And if I could break to very soul-gut of my sorrow,
Then maybe I could render this sense to the tragedies of tomorrow,
And that is just the bitter pharmacy of the truth revealed,
You are wounded with the same wisdom with which you are never healed.

Actions faults; the mere sum of every x-factor that you don't know,
Thus blame serves as scapegoat; a virgin in a volcano,
The hurt pays homage to what the moment could have meant,
And those coins deposited on the eyes could have been better spent,
The hope that bribes the better days may falsify the hopeless ones,
With an army of servile daughters and idolatrous sons,
Until the slow torture of servitude degrades the self of life,
And then even a poet's sleep will start dreaming on the knife.

In the correspondence of your mind and the working-world,
The disconnect is proportioned to the way your thoughts are twirled,
And the emotional-earthquake that can shake your soul's ghost-city,
Can leave such ruins you cannot tell sorrow from self-pity,
Your memory prognosticates your future from its grave,
So to keep from being a victim of change you become a routine-slave,
We so often treat the moment's urge with our complacency,
That we never realize this is the way time tailors tragedy.