The lament of the mythopoeticist

we move like rubble and pick up the rough outliers
the peaks of the past,
momentary protrusions that belie a deep interconnection
running through our ruinous civilisation
born of something beautiful
the sickness of our souls
that rejects the individual as the locus of meaning
and places us in opposition
to all current myths
thank the gods
that we can't fit
our own comfortable lies.