Pessimist's Lament

It's funny how life can turn on its head like some sort of hypercomplex fractal.
Like now how you're thinking, 'what the fuck is a hypercomplex fractal?'
and mad about the fact that you're worried about that rather than carrying on.
The way that we sought stability until it drove us right into the ground;
that point of origin, having gone full circle, the place most stable and dirty of all.

We Babel at each other, not saying anything, until the tower's so high that,
no, it doesn't get collapsed by the omniscient God, but by forgetting why we built
and finding that I'm pulling the last Jenga piece out from under myself.

Scurrying to grapple and grasp at the ever-thin air, getting heavier and heavier,
there is the ever-growing pain of realization, knowing that we only move forward
at the cost of living, until our bodies tire of the incessant antics and abuse.
Navigating dodgy systems of olde, aiming for heaven, afraid to get there.
Wasted years preparing for moments that were only but dreams of youthful
vitality.

As we pay to play to forget to play until we just pay, and pay and pay
to remember some day what once was lost was not forever forgotten
and gain sight once more in our unsightly, broken bodies
with rusty joints and dreams of joints once so fine.