The Doomstone spoke with such vicious clarity
From the pulpit we had built from pessimism.
And I hated every word spewed as it shaded my summer,
The bleak blackness it painted clotting the sun.
That mass of panic and grief, with reason supporting?
Wasn’t there hope for reprieve in skill or augmentation,
Something to quench the hunger for emptiness and void?
And the faulty idealism that diverts ultimate reality?
Where is the stolid optimism, still true to the actual,
But positive enough to eventually conquer the Doomstone?
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