Death of an idea

Cracked orbs of purest white
    A makeshift mountain, their tomb
Stare up, lamenting their plight
    In a soundless wail of gloom.

Lost in a forgotten cave,
    A plotline burns in neglect.
Yet the embers from its grave
    Inspire the poet's respect.

"The authorities agree -
    The fittest merit survival.
Thus Darwinian decree
    Forbids your revival."

Regret is brushed aside,
    Misgivings turned to vapour.
With passion as my guide,
    I put my pen to paper.

A cynic's narrative
    Imposes reinvention,
Rendering imperative
    A break from convention.

Shall villainy be rewarded?
    To a credulous simpleton,
A painful fate awarded,
    That may not be undone?

A momentary flicker
    Of fresh fabrication
Evaporates quicker
    Than a poet's dedication.

Another sphere of defeat,
    A ball of potential curled,
Is tossed to its hilly retreat
    Remains of a godless world.


(Après-post: I know I haven't been very regular with posts or comments lately. I'm sorry, but deadlines have tightened their sinister grip on my throat to a level that makes it impossible to deny their existence like I usually do. But I have seen the error of my ways. Reform is imminent.)