Layer on layer of metadata
Pile up till the floor is lost to sight.
None see reality choke underneath,
Buried under towering ivory wads.
Those still alive climb to the top,
Where they can still overlook the shambles.
Once on a pile that support their weight,
They fight over its place in the catalog.
They still try to make sense of their order,
To find out where the stack began down there,
Only to sink a third time into the flood of words,
And be turned into just more paperwork.
Which are true is not even in question;
Their vanity is beneath even falsehood,
If in referring only to themselves,
They mean to say nothing at all.
Everything is indeed but semantics,
If you lot out the earth for archives,
Didn’t you know it takes just a spark
To make this tinderbox a lake of fire?
The only truth all your cultures have
Is as a cancer quite real in your brain;
You should indeed be all treated equally —
With the impartiality of a psychiatrist.

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