Think it Through

Oh, what becomes of a hominid brain  
when the heaven of pleasure takes a stroll  
and daily logistics seem like a drain  
that drags away what is left of a soul  
and meaning is lost in an endless sky  
that seems to serve only to suck or blow  
so harshly that even a stone could cry  
and melt down into Hell's magmatic flow  
where hopes are all turned into poison pills  
rudely injected into cracks of doom  
like the way a vein can fissure cheap thrills    
for a dying artery's final flume,  
as if it were a bargain to borrow...  
an entire future...to pay for sorrow?