The Responsible Hate Anthem of J. Abernathy Thaxton (Part 4)

And I have memorized the stare, seen them all—

The stare that rots society into a somnambulant phase,

And when I am stumbling, under the illusion of choice,

When I am deluded and staring at the cubicle wall,

Then how could I become

Anything of substance, purpose, or use?

               So why pretty up this tomb?

And I know these hands already, know them all—

Hands that clutch and grasp, their spirit bare

(But in the screenglow, apoplectic with thumbs aflair!)

Is it projection I confess 

That makes me such a mess?

Hands that never leave a phone, never warp the world.

                 So why pretty up this tomb?

                 Then how could I become?