Old, bitter man.

You freely pawn off your worst-laid plans with grains of sand,

thinking we like the taste while it’s funneling down,

and emptying the space.

I can tell an elder on sight,

you’re less reliable than we ever were,

a salty shell that’s never right. 

Metal and gears, we claim progress is success.

To or so we guess, while we were getting burned,

speeding past our common sense

for diminishing returns.

I can tell an elder on sight.

A salty shell that’s never right.