Earth’s Strata Are Littered with Little Engines

It seems like most lives,
Most aspirations,
Just run out of days,

At least among those
Capable of hopes,
Tormented by things

With feathers, perching
In their skulls for years
And screeching at them,

Needing to be fed,
Waiting to be freed.
Dreams shift a little,

On their swinging bar,
Fluff their clipped wings, sing,
Peck at tin mirrors,

That sort of thing. Years
Go by in the same
Way, more or less, same

Skull, same thought patterns,
Still puffing uphill
Against entropy,

Hopes kept in a cage
By the engineer
For early warning

In case the boiler
Gives off toxic fumes.
You shovel fuel in.

You want to win this,
Achieve that, find love,
Find your inner self,

Peace of mind, transform
Your neighborhood, leave
The world a better

Place for your offspring
And theirs, and you do,
You do some. You lose

Some. In the middle
Of chuffing hard work,
Of projects and dreams

(The average person,
One researcher claims,
Has about fifteen)

You run out of steam.