Chasing Will O’ the Wisps
would be more productive
than these dead, self-saturated
swamps of thought,
ideology being the stagnation of
without growth;
and so there stretch billions of
digital miles of
re-peat bog
as people plant the same seeds of
tribal belief, partisan posts
that have corrupted Eden
with web-arrayed weeds
just to add another layer
to the wasteland.
Even as they dig up
territorial turf
and let it air,
it still catches fire
as the stale, decaying
mouthfuls of morass
into one another;
meanwhile minds everywhere vegetate
into poisonous plants
which likewise never grow.
So much time and energy
tending rotten roots,
so much life
devoted to a barren horizon of
inert, suffocating compost.
It makes bogmen
of us all.