Shakespeare's Rub

We, instinct's marionette?
These spider-strings dare we cut?
And escape to what?
Ah, again Shakespeare's rub!

So we, our own pallbearers...
Carry the weight...
Of our own embellished corpse;
Stumbling ever graveward!

Be there some escape,
B'hind pyrites-golden
Of olden drape?
Future glory or atrocity...
In de Grey's longevity escape velocity?

But something more than me discerns!
For how now the juxtaposition turns.
For how the self-disgust and disdain;
If of that dead weight I am the same?

Ah, a pivot on some (hyper)kinesthetic dialectic?
The minute-before-me,
Comparing the minute-after-me...
And the minute now, juxtaposing?

Or do I simply envy machine or plant?
Or these, just mirrors in the brain?
Or some trick of time...
Devoid of rhyme.

For that is the essence of a Poem...
 
A part-echo of the moment before;
That being
The "relation" between
The things written and nothing more!

Thus could we exclaim "life is poetic?"
Which is to say,
It rhymes, but means nothing.