A roll call 

Of lost souls, 

Hiding in foxholes,

In absentia from

Their own destiny,

Engulfed in a digression, 

Far from the main idea,

Where mirrors inspire enmity,

The futility of futurity

Feels more than real,

And healthy skepticism

Becomes stealthy cynicism, 

Without the bridle on, 

Under the graceless tutelage

Of all those doubting Thomases

Who readily forget just what

It really takes to belong.